


Naked

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (sooo much nudity), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Auror Partners, Banter, Drama, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Humour, M/M, Magical Theory, Mystery, Nudity, Oral Sex, Rimming, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 09:12:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 57,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12478232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: Harry and Draco are sent on an undercover assignment to catch a Dark wizard — which might not be so bad if it weren't at a Mugglenudistresort.Now Draco has to deal with a very interested Harry, temptation he's long-since learned to ignore, and threats around every corner — including the one to his heart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to Chibaken and Loveglowsinthedark for their thoughtful beta through this beast of a fic; your comments and notes were invaluable. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Originally posted on LJ and Dreamwidth for the HP Drizzle fest.
> 
> All characters belong to JK Rowling and associated publishers.

_Tick, tick, tick, tick._

The clock on the Minister’s bookshelf provides Draco with an anchor to reality as the world spins dangerously around him. He focuses on the sound of it, even as the Minister clears his throat and Potter shifts next to him. And he waits. 

And waits.

For surely Potter is going to object to this any second now, and because he’s the sodding Boy Who Lived, the Minister will glance down at his paperwork and realise there’d been a mistake. Robards’ face will clear with sudden understanding, and he’ll nod to Shacklebolt, who will pick up his quill, and strike Draco’s name as one of the Aurors from the casefile. Probably Potter’s, too, because it _must_ be a mistake. There was no way in hell Potter would ever agree to— to—

_Tick, tick, tick_

“When are we leaving?” Potter asks.

Draco rounds on him, gaping. “We are _not_ leaving!” he hisses. Potter raises his brows, and Draco draws back. He attempts to modulate his voice into something resembling professional, and forces a smile. “I just mean, there’s obviously been a mistake. Isn’t that right, Minister?”

Shacklebolt, damn him, has the audacity to look amused. His lips twitch, and he rubs at his chin thoughtfully with his knuckle. “I’m afraid it isn’t, Auror Malfoy. Do you have an official objection you’d like to raise about being placed on this assignment?”

Draco thinks quickly. “I have a Dark Mark. Surely that will blow our cover. Everyone else with one is in Azkaban; people will know it’s me.”

“On the contrary,” Shacklebolt says smoothly. His mouth twitches again. “The Unspeakables have offered to Glamour both of you for the duration of the assignment. Their identity disillusionment charms are the most durable, so though you’ll be able to recognise one another as you are, any primary identifying features you have will be unrecognisable to the world around you. Your Mark, Malfoy--Harry’s scar. For that matter, your faces will be subtly different, as well as your hair colours. It’s not unlike Polyjuice, really, except that it lasts until the spell is broken, and your body is physically unaffected. It’s quite strong. You won’t even be able to see yourselves as you are in the mirror.”

“But— But.” Draco looks at Potter, who examines his fingernails as though they're remotely interesting. His mouth, too, is twitching. Fuck. “I have very fair skin,” he says lamely.

Potter snorts, then tries to pretend he’d been coughing. Draco glares at him -- a fruitless gesture, because Potter doesn’t bother to look up.

Robards makes a coughing noise as well, and Draco whips his glare to around. “Obviously there’s some sort of illness going around,” he says icily. “So, of course, you should find different Aurors to fulfil the requirements of this job.”

“Just a tickle in my throat,” Robards assures him, clearing it. He sighs, amusement fading. “We need the two of you, Malfoy. Your Dark Mark may be useful. I’m told it still responds when near heightened levels of Dark Magic?”

Draco shifts uncomfortably, frowning. “Respond isn’t the right term. It— There’s sensation, there. Even occasionally for strong magic in general.”

“Really?” Potter asks curiously, finally turning to him. He glances at Draco’s forearm, covered by his robes. “You never mentioned that, Malfoy.”

“I never had a reason to,” Draco says, stiffening. As if Potter is one to talk about not sharing personal information. “We go usually into jobs knowing what we’re looking for.”

“Right, no, I just—” Potter looks at him with consternation, then shakes his head and drops the line of enquiry at whatever he sees on Draco’s face, tone turning brisk. “But you can differentiate whether the magic is Dark or not?”

Draco nods, concealing a grimace.

“Well, the artefact being moved may radiate high-concentration levels of Dark Magic, if our intel is correct," Robards continues after a beat of silence. “We need your Mark, as well as your investigative skills. We can’t just send Aurors around to cast revealing charms at a well-populated muggle resort; it’s too risky when dealing with Dark artefacts.”

“A muggle _nudist_ resort,” Draco mutters unhappily, bringing it back to the real point. 

“Well, yes. Exactly,” Shacklebolt says, apparently pleased that Draco understands. Draco rolls his eyes. “And you won’t be alone -- we have a team of Aurors on-site already. They’re on another case, which we _think_ is unrelated, although we need to be alerted about any potential connections. Anyhow, they’ll be able to take over the investigation at night and give aid if needed.”

“What about a magical empath?” Draco says. “Surely, we must have one on staff here, or be able to find someone to accompany—”

Shacklebolt’s nostrils flare and it looks like he’s trying hard not to chuckle again. “Do you really have no concept of how rare that ability is? If we knew of anyone living in Britain able to look at someone or something and sense its inherent magical capabilities, we’d be paying them half our budget.”

Draco sags, defeated. He wants to wipe the scowl off his face, but that’s really hard to do when Potter is nudging his arm with all the enthusiasm of an untrained Crup.

“C’mon, Malfoy,” Potter says, grinning. “Sunshine, swimming, hot springs — it’s basically a free vacation at an all-inclusive resort where we get to catch a Dark wizard. Sounds like fun.”

“It sounds _naked_ to me,” Draco says. Potter laughs. 

“Well, that too. But if you’ve never had fun naked then I think you may be doing it wr—” Potter breaks off, flushing. He slides a guilty glance over to Shacklebolt, who is wisely pretending to read some parchment. Draco feels the urge to hex the Minister’s mouth into immobility; damn it, this isn’t funny. Robards doesn’t even bother hiding his amusement, leaning back in his chair with a wide smile. Potter shakes his head a little. “Anyway. Maybe we’ll find the guy on the first day.”

“Entirely possible,” Shacklebolt says, looking up, "though not entirely likely, considering the size of the resort. It’s rather large, and our intelligence claims that the wizard in question is taking his time meeting with potential buyers to move the object.”

Draco latches onto that desperately. “Why can’t we pose as those?”

There’s a pause. “Do you think he hasn’t picked his location deliberately?. The lack of dress makes it easier to discern a lack of threat,” Robards says. “It’s one of the reasons it’s so important we have both you and Harry on the case. Besides, we’ve set it up so that you can segue into acting as potential buyers if and when the need arises.”

“Why is it so important for it to be Potter and me?” Draco asks once more, mind catching on it. He flushes. “A lot of people have magic that — works well together.”

A scowl flickers over Potter's face scowls before his expression grows bland. “They want me for my wandless magic,” he says simply, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

“Ah.” Draco gazes at him for a moment, unable to think of anything else to say. He’s never been able to figure out why Potter is so touchy about having such an exorbitant amount of power at his fingertips. When asked, Potter brushes off the question as though he would a fly buzzing about his ear.

Potter looks down at his nails again and Draco tries to think of something to say that will diffuse the sudden tension in the room. Then the rest of the implication of Potter’s statement hits him, clicking in his head like the tumblers in a lock.

“Wait a minute!” he blurts. “Where am I supposed to hide _my_ wand?”

***

The heat is oppressive – thick and muggy. Sweat beads on Draco’s skin as he and Potter trudge up the narrow dirt road, and he longs to cast a freshening charm, but the giant lodge of the resort has come into view as they crest the small hill, and he daren’t risk it. They can’t even Apparate for fear that people behind them may notice.

He hates not being able to do magic.

“Merlin, Potter,” he mutters. “I don’t know how you stood it, growing up.”

Potter huffs a small laugh. “You act like the muggle world is constantly in the middle of a heatwave or something.”

That isn’t what he’d meant and is about to say so, but Potter’s gestures subtly at him and Draco’s skin turns cool and dry, just like that — though moisture immediately collects above his upper lip, and he can feel it prickle across the small of his back as soon as Potter drops his hand. He sighs.

“And stop calling me Potter,” Potter reminds him. “If I have to carry your bags for you, you could at least show me the decency of calling me Harry. Plus,” he points out, grinning, “we’re supposed to be in love.”

Draco rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother to hide the smirk that pulls at his mouth as he watches Potter fumble with both bags again. The contents have been shrunken and the bags charmed to decrease the weight, but they are rather bulky. Something petty in Draco appreciates the fact that Potter is struggling so hard, particularly after _Potter_ won the argument about getting to keep _his_ first name while Draco had to change his.

“At least they require clothing for mealtimes,” Draco says. He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “ _Harry._ ”

Potter’s startled gaze slides to his. Draco lets his his own get caught for a moment before glancing elsewhere; it’s just that green is his favourite colour and always had been. There is nothing significant at all about the way his cheeks get warmer — it's obviously because of the stupid weather and the mile-long walk from the road.

“Draco,” Potter returns, voice lower. Draco pauses and it takes a moment for him to notice that Potter has called him by the wrong name. He hasn’t heard that tone in Potter’s voice since the night they’d almost— 

“That’s just one dining room,” Potter says after a moment. 

“Well, it’s the one we’ll be using,” Draco says, wrinkling his nose. “Watching people eat in the nude – that can’t be appetising.”

“I don’t know, maybe. Guess it depends on who you’re looking at,” Potter murmurs. Draco flicks a sharp glance to him; Potter's cheeks are slightly pink too, and his eyes are on Draco’s mouth.

Draco’s heart skips.

He halts on the dusty path, satisfied at Potter's stumble when he follows suit.

“Yes, I look very nice naked,” Draco says, glad to have a reason to confront it. “I’m sure you do, too. We’re two gay men who will be naked frequently around each other and we almost shagged once and decided not to ruin our working relationship. Is this going to be a problem, _Harry?_ ”

The arsehole doesn’t look remotely abashed or intimidated by his little speech — which has taken no small amount of nerve to say (and is something he may have practiced more than once), if Draco is being honest. Draco wants to throttle him where they stand.

“Literally nothing you just said is a problem for me, Draco,” Potter says somberly, though his eyes are dancing with mirth Draco scowls at him to get his point across.

“Then stop flirting with me.” He starts walking again.

“ _That_ might be a problem,” Potter says. He snickers and rolls his eyes when Draco throws him an outraged look. “Come on, lighten up a little.”

“I think you’re light enough for the both of us,” Draco mutters, every fibre of his body pulsing with resentment as they climb the steps that lead into the lodge. “We’re here to work, not play.”

“Work can be fun,” Potter says encouragingly. He hesitates and something in his face falters with a flash of discontent, but then his smiles returns and Draco dismisses it as an anomoly.

“You’ve never had to work with _you,_ ” Draco scoffs, but he knows Potter can tell he’s trying to fight a smile by the way he elbows him in the ribcage before sliding an arm around his waist as they approach the front desk.

“Hi, we have a reservation under Matthews,” Potter tells the shirtless employee behind the counter, who smiles at them and clicks some buttons on his muggle machine. Draco peeks; he can’t see the waistband of any pants from the angle at which he’s standing, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the employee isn’t wearing any. Glancing around, he can see people lounging and walking in various states of undress, some down to their pants and several more completely nude. Everyone seem oddly relaxed about it. Draco’s face grows hot.

“Welcome!” The employee fiddles with something for a moment, then passes over some pamphlets and a small plastic card. “You’re in our lakeview suite and your names have been added to our VIP lists. Please feel free to join in any activities — even those marked ‘closed,’ such as our private yoga classes.” He glances over at Draco, looking vaguely sympathetic. “I understand this can be a new experience. Take your own time finding your comfort level; we would never encourage you to disrobe before you’re ready.”

“Oh, no, this was his idea,” Potter says, squeezing him around the ribcage so tight that Draco’s automatic, infuriated objection is cut off as he tries to breathe. “I said, ‘where should we go for our honeymoon?’ and Daniel here said, ‘Harry, I want to take you somewhere you can be naked the entire time.’” Potter laughs. Draco pastes on a smile and steps on Potter's foot with all of his weight, as Potter continues, “So we’re naked all the way!”

“Oh, congratulations!” the employee says, grinning. “Please, let me send up a complimentary bottle of champagne to your room.”

“Thanks, that’d be great,” Potter says with a grin, nuzzling Draco’s ear. Draco pinches a bit of muscle on Potter’s back and twists it ruthlessly until Potter’s arm around him loosens.

“Yes, lovely, thank you,” Draco parrots.

They make it to their room without further incident to find that they are, indeed, very lovely accommodations. The bed is over-large, covered with a crisp white duvet and half a dozen pristine white pillows; there's a fully stocked mini-liquor cabinet and muggle cooling box, a table, and cabinets filled with books. The en suite has a deep porcelain tub, so large it could almost rival that in the prefect’s bath. 

Draco sits down on the bed after looking around. He slides off his shoes, toeing off his socks and sighing as the air hits his feet.

“See, not so bad, right?” Potter says.

Draco’s mouth quirks. “Do you mind telling me why you’re so excited about this, Potter? Honestly.”

Potter shrugs. “Well, I never really get to take vacations where people don’t know me, do I? I’ve always thought I’d one day travel to America or further, someplace out of Europe where people won’t recognise me, but I haven’t had the chance yet. Using Polyjuice to get some peace when I go out usually works, but it always makes me feel odd for a couple of days afterward. Right now, though, we basically get to stay in this nice room and ask questions for a few days while doing some good. As assignments go, it’s not the worst.” 

His eyes are on Draco’s bare feet as he speaks. Self-consciously, Draco pulls them closer. 

“Oh.” Draco doesn’t know what to say — it’s probably the most personal thing Potter has ever told him, and it’s not even that detailed. A lot of people know he doesn’t like the attention he gets from the press, but for Potter to confide it in him directly is... disconcerting. “All right. Do you want to go over the files for a few minutes?”

“I don’t know, I thought naked yoga sounded fun.” There's a wicked edge to Potter's smile and Draco can’t tamp down a laugh, even as his cock responds to the idea of Potter -- wearing nothing -- in downward-facing dog. 

He sighs; this is going to be such a problem.

***

Two hours later, Draco has done everything he can think of to stall, having gone meticulously through the case files twice. Potter keeps shooting him exasperated glances, as if that’s going to convince Draco to strip down to the skin and go waltzing around, no matter how luxurious the resort is.

“My love,” Potter says abruptly. Draco’s so startled, he drops the case file he’s holding. Parchment scatters over the bedding and he hastily collects it.

“Potter?” It comes out more warily than he’d intended, but Merlin help him if Potter is suddenly under some kind of love spell.

“Just getting into character,” Potter says. Then, more pointedly, “Because we need to leave the room soon. The first blind contact for the seller is near the nude pool. I thought we could start there.”

Draco scowls, but has to concede the point. He didn’t work his arse off for three years of brutal Auror training to let his appalling attraction to his one-time nemesis turned co-worker turned sort-of-friend keep him from doing his damned job. “Fine. But try not to stare.”

“No,” Potter says. He smirks. 

“I sometimes wonder if you’re still a teenager who’s just taken aging potions,” Draco mutters on his way to the loo.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Malfoy,” Potter calls. “As a teenager, I never would have been able to admit how attracted to you I was.”

Draco schools his expression until he’s in the privacy of the en suite, but the face he sees in the mirror — not quite his own, with wider cheekbones, brown eyes and a less patrician nose, topped by sandy-blond hair — looks flushed and… and fucking _tempted_. He glares at his faux-reflection before using the facilities and taking a quick, cool shower —even better than a charm. 

When he’s finished, he reaches for his clothing automatically but stops, glaring at the folded pile. Wrapping a towel around his hips instead, he heads back into the bedroom.

Potter is lounging on the bed, fully nude already. All of the air leaves Draco’s lungs on a rush.

“You didn’t want to bathe?”

“Charms,” Potter says blithely. His head tilts to one side and his mouth ticks up at the corner. “You okay, Draco?”

“Of course.” Draco sniffs and takes off his towel.

There’s really no point in avoiding the issue — not if Potter keeps confronting it like this. And Draco’s attraction to him hasn’t exactly been hidden anyway, not since that night they got pissed after closing a case and stumbled to Potter’s flat together, near a year ago now. Draco's ten year secret, burst with one shared bottle of whiskey. Still, that doesn’t make it easier to be see exactly what he's spent far too many hours contemplating since then: Potter’s body with its golden-tan skin, small brown nipples, and lean muscles. He's all graceful sinew and bone, and he stands and stretches, deliberately on display to Draco’s gaze. The reality of his cock, which Draco'd felt pressed thick and hard against his thigh that night, doesn't suffer upon the viewing of it, though it's (mostly) flaccid. It’s surrounded by curling black hair, which narrows into a thin trail on Potter’s flat stomach that leads to his belly-button.

“Draco,” Potter says, and it sounds like a warning. Like a promise.

Draco glances up. Potter’s eyes are dark with intent and are zeroed in on Draco’s cock, which gives a little tingle, as though it’s being stroked by Potter’s gaze. Draco sighs, consciously stretching out an arm to lean against the wall, posing in a way he knows makes him look delectable. He crosses one leg over the other and inhales deeply. “Wasn’t the point of that for me to look?”

“Yes," Potter says, with not a shred of evasiveness. He swallows, and Draco has suddenly had enough. He pushes off the wall.

“Are we done then?” he snaps. “We’ve both looked and satisfied our curiosities. You were the one who was so anxious to get outside.”

Potter takes a halting step toward him, left hand curling closed. Draco carefully doesn’t look down again as Potter draws in a breath and releases it slowly.

“Yeah, we should go,” he says gruffly. “Got your wand?”

Draco retrieves the forearm holster charmed to look like some kind of muggle bone brace. The slender, sculpted length of his fir wand will slot easily between the holster and his forearm, ready to be pulled with a slight twitch of his wrist. He fumbles with one hand to put the holster on, but then Potter is there, gently buckling the fastenings for him, so close that Draco can smell his skin. Leather and woodsmoke and some subtle, spicy scent lingering underneath. Draco dutifully starts to look away, but a small marking catches his eye. He narrows his eyes and looks closer at Potter’s chest.

“Is that—”

Potter glances down, surprised. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo.” He’s seen Potter shirtless plenty of times, while they duel for training or with a towel around his waist in the locker room. Draco’s sure he would have remembered if Potter had got a tattoo. He squints at it; it looks familiar, though not on Potter’s skin.

“So what?” Potter clips out, moving away. Draco can’t help but note the muscled curve of his arse as it bunches while he walks. “You have one.” 

Irrationally stung, Draco turns. He searches through his bag for a moment, eyes unfocussed, and hears Potter sigh loudly behind him.

“Sorry, Malfoy,” Potter mutters, low. “I didn’t realise that the Glamour — whatever they did to enable us to see each other — would reveal it. I keep it hidden for a reason.”

“Why would you get a tattoo on such a visible spot if you were planning on hiding it?” Draco asks, hoping he sounds more absent-mindedly curious than hurt. He spies a glint of something in his bag pulls out a black lacquer box. Opening it and lifting out the medallion that will enable them to contact each other without a Patronus while they’re on-site, he slips the chain the disc dangles from around his neck, then holds out the box. Potter’s hand lands on his wrist for a moment, gentle, as if in apology. Draco looks up.

“I—” Potter falters. “I had to.”

“Well,” Draco says coolly, “I had to get mine, too.”

Potter takes the box from him, meeting his eyes levelly. He breathes out slowly, and purses his mouth. “You don’t understand.”

Frowning, Draco looks at it once more, that coppery little triangle-circle-line, positioned right over Potter's heart. “Of course not. You don’t explain—” He bites his lip, memory aligning with what's in front of him. “Is that the symbol for the Deathly Hallows? From the children’s story? The Three Brothers?”

If possible, Potter looks even unhappier. He glances down at it again. “Yeah.”

Draco considers that for a moment, uncertain as to how to respond. Almost certainly, he’s just learned something that no one beyond Potter’s most exclusive circle knows. Taking a chance, he ventures, “Does this have something to do with what you said at the... That night? About me being the master of the Elder Wand?”

“It does,” Potter says, looking at him with an inscrutable expression that feels significant somehow. Draco hides his shock.

It can’t hurt to try his luck once more, so he asks, “Then don’t you think I might have a right to know about it?”

It’s been one of his most burning questions for the last seven years, and probably one of Potter’s most guarded secrets. But other than the speech he’d given to the Dark Lord before felling him, Potter and his friends have never referenced the Wand again. For a while people whispered about it, and rumours still circulated from time to time, but Draco long ago resigned himself to never know the truth -- in part, because it never occurred to him that he might have cause to ask, in part because he's been too scared to.

And for good reason, it seems. At the question, Potter’s bright eyes go dark and flinty behind his specs. He moves away once more, magic snapping around him like static electricity, and plucks out his own pendant to loop it around his throat. “We should go.”

“Fine,” Draco says. It's practically a habit now around Potter to ignore any pang of interest encouraging him to ask more questions; Potter never gives up anything he doesn’t want to. “One of us should swim to make it look natural.”

“You go ahead,” Potter says tersely, not meeting Draco’s eyes. He simply stands there sullenly, the most attractive naked man Draco has ever shared a room with, and somehow manages to make Draco feel sorry for him. “I’ll look around and talk to people.”

Draco capitulates with a shrug. The water will be nice in this blasted heat, and there’s nothing that says he can’t observe the other guests from that vantage point. Besides, as fond as he is of his cock, he’s not exactly chuffing to show it off to the masses. “I’m a better swimmer anyway.”

Potter smirks and the strange, tense atmosphere finally starts to dissipate. In a conciliatory gesture, he nods to Draco. “Need a skin-protective charm?”

Draco shrugs again, not willing to outright accept the offer but not wanting to refuse, and Potter seems to take it as a confirmation. He waves his hand in Draco’s direction and the tingling, refreshing coolness of magic blankets Draco from his scalp to his toes in a slow, almost erotic ripple. He represses a shiver; he’s always gone a bit weak against the buzz of Potter’s magic.

Potter is watching him with a raised eyebrow when Draco looks up. It doesn’t escape Draco’s notice that he’s gotten half-hard in the last few moments, nor does it escape his notice that Potter has, too. His cock has thickened and lengthened and Draco doesn’t know whether to launch himself at Potter for being a walking wet dream or hex him to pieces for being everything Draco can’t have.

“We’re going to attract more attention sporting these,” Potter says after a moment, a hint of suggestion to it. Draco snorts.

“Everyone thinks we’re on our honeymoon,” he says. Potter grins, his bad mood completely banished by Draco’s grudging — though humiliatingly obvious — desire and Draco surprises himself by chuckling in response. “You canvas the area around the pool. I’ll talk to people and get a general idea of who’s been here the last week.”

Potter tilts his head thoughtfully at the instruction and nods. Technically, he’s Draco’s superior, having joined the Auror force over a year before Draco did. But on the rare cases they work together, he’s been much more of a team player than Draco would have ever suspected in their youth; chalk one point up for Weasley and Granger training him right, Draco supposes.

“Yeah,” Potter says after a beat. “I’ll set up alert charms where I can around the towel-rack that the first contact is supposed to be made through.”

“Sounds good." It's a bit bewildering to have such a normal conversation while he and Potter are both looking at each other, naked and at half-mast, but Draco shakes it off. “We’ll reconvene here after dinner and discuss—”

Potter gives a muffled little laugh. “Uh, Malfoy—we’re having dinner together. I’m not likely to leave my new husband alone to eat while I wander the grounds looking at naked strangers.”

Flustered, Draco blinks and absorbs that. “Right.” It’s not as though they haven’t eaten together before. “Well.”

“For that matter, you’re probably going to have to resign yourself to being... er, _close_ to me for the duration,” Potter continues. The words are teasing, but his eyes are dark and watchful.

Close to him. Close to Potter. Because they’re undercover as newlyweds who have to be naked all the time.

_Fuck_ , Draco thinks. Then, for good measure, _fuck, fuck, fuck!_

He takes a deep breath and gives Potter what he hopes is an intimidating glare. “No tongue when you kiss me.”

“I’ll do my best, but circumstances being what they are, I can’t promise anything,” Potter says loftily, pulling his chin up.

Fuck.

***

The afternoon sun is glaring white-gold. Having been at the pool for over two hours, Draco is duly grateful for the strength of Potter’s skin-protective charm as a middle-aged woman named Alice chats with him about how freeing the resort is, her breasts bobbing in the water beside him. She seems completely at ease in her own skin, unperturbed by the extra weight around her middle and the softening of her jaw, or the stretch marks that shine white along the fleshy inside of her upper arms. Draco quite likes that about her. Apart from his looks, Draco's never felt at ease with himself; he's always wondered what that would be like.

“This is our eighth year here,” Alice continues, voice warm and friendly. Her rhinestone-rimmed sunglasses rest on top of her head, casting rainbow bursts of light at him whenever she moves. Draco keeps his face engaged, nodding at the appropriate moments as he listens with half an ear and scans the sprawling pool area. It contains not one pool but four, as well as a waterslide -- though thankfully he hasn’t seen anyone use it yet. He can’t imagine how that would look.

…Fun, perhaps.

He tips her a smile and nods again when she falls silent. “You’d thought about trying it before your daughter went to University?”

“Oh, yes. Alan had always talked about it. He came here when he was eighteen and rather liked the setting. He’s a bit of a bear when he doesn’t get a holiday,” she confides quietly, glancing at her husband, who's lounging, half-sleep, in one of the deck chairs. She giggles, but it comes out low and confident, rather than grating or childlike. “When I was younger, it felt a lot more risqué than it does now. It’s positively addictive, coming here and allowing yourself to be on display, surrounded by like-minded people. Just watch; I bet I’ll see you here next summer. Very few people don’t come back.”

Draco’s attention narrows. He turns a subtly devious smile at her and gives her his full focus. “I doubt you’d remember me, love.”

Alice laughs again, twinkling a casually-flirtatious eye at him. “And I doubt you’re easy to forget.”

Draco smirks. “Maybe you just have an eye for faces.”

She gives a considering nod. “I actually do. I’m a photographer, so I tend to have good recall.”

“Hmm.” Draco tilts his head back against the tiled lip of the pool and looks around pointedly. “How many people here do you recognise?”

She frowns thoughtfully, dark brown eyes roving. “At least two-thirds. There are always new people here for the titillation factor who quickly realise that— well, it’s just not that titillating. So a few don’t come back. But I can usually spot the ones who will.”

“And I’m destined to be one of them?” Draco asks, amused.

“I think you need a bit of this,” she says candidly, surprising him. “A way to escape those things you hide yourself in. I think you’ll find it benefits you, to be open. I have a feeling you’re quite... guarded.”

It’s an incredibly presumptuous thing to say, but surprisingly astute for all that and Draco tries not to feel embarrassed that that the inner workings of his heart are so obvious. But he nods. “Perhaps. Who won’t be back?”

“That man, there,” Alice says, pointing to a swarthy fellow in a sunning chair, dark glasses propped on his brow. “I saw him being rude to a staff member earlier; those types usually don’t return, because one of the basic tenets of this place is a sense of equality amongst us all. And see those two younger gentlemen chatting?” She gives a discreet nod to two boys, barely out of their teens, at the end of the pool. “They’re the hot-naked-women seekers. They won’t be back.”

Draco doesn’t bother suppressing a snicker, and she joins in, delighted. “That woman with the red hair—I’d wager her husband dragged her here or something. He’s probably off doing things and having a fantastic time, and she seems uncomfortable with the whole thing. And that man with the light hair at the bar, wearing his pants? I’m _fairly sure,_ ” she says, drawing out the words, “that he thought this resort would be a good place to take a working vacation. Honestly, I doubt he even realised what it was; maybe just saw a picture of the lodge and the hot springs. He’s incredibly tense always carrying around a laptop case. There are probably a few more, but I’m sure of those.”

Draco studies the man for a moment. He does seem tense, and there’s a black laptop case resting at his feet as he sips a blue drink. 

His pendant flares hot against his chest, and Draco starts, sloshing the water a bit around them. He prepares to make his excuses, but suddenly her eyebrows fly high. Draco looks up and sees Potter approaching. “Now that one I can only _hope_ comes back,” she murmurs to him, eyes widening.

Potter does cut an impressive figure, Draco has to admit. He’s all lean hard lines, and his thick, soft cock bounces slightly with each purposeful step. His eyes are gloriously green, though of course Draco is the only one who can see them as such, and his jaw is square and tight, in direct contrast to the softness of his mouth, which is pulled into a gentle, interested smile. He radiates power as he walks, leanly muscled thighs tensing, and Draco wonders if the muggles can sense it — can _feel_ it — like he does, the inherent, ruthlessly coiled magical strength that emanates from him.

Potter halts in front of them and crouches down. He doesn’t seem to notice the way his balls dip and hang loose between his thighs, but he’s definitely noticed that Draco’s been staring. Draco flushes, suddenly regretting the sun-charm he was so grateful for only minutes ago. 

“Babe,” Potter says, low and warm. Alice makes a small sound beside Draco.

“Harry, meet Alice,” he says, dutifully reaching up to accept the kiss that Potter leans down to bestow upon his mouth. It’s barely more than a light brush, but Draco’s lips tingle. “She was just telling me that we’ll definitely be coming back.”

Alice laughs, low and throaty, completely unabashed at having ogled Potter so openly. She holds out a wet hand. “I think Daniel here will like it,” she amends. “And you seem the type to go where your partner does.”

Harry shakes her hand and quirks a grin at her. “Husband. And I am. Pleasure.”

“Likewise.” Her eyes grow wide as she catches view of something behind him. “Oh, dear, Alan’s waving at me; he’s getting grouchy. I’d better get him back to the room before he burns.”

“It was lovely to talk to you,” Draco says.

“Yes. I’m sure I’ll see you soon,” she returns, smiling, then swims off with a small wave in their direction. 

Potter shifts so he’s sitting on his bottom. He dangles his legs in the pool next to Draco. “Making friends?”

“Well, if my new husband hadn’t abandoned me after he promised not to,” Draco says snidely. Potter huffs a laugh and nudges him in the side of his stomach with his foot. Draco rolls his eyes. “She’s been here eight years running. Mentioned a few first-timers that don’t have the feel of returning guests to her. Two men and a woman, as well as a pair of younger blokes who can’t be more than twenty-one.”

Potter removes his specs and clips sun shields onto them, then slides them back onto the bridge of his nose. It looks weird to not be able to see the colour that makes Draco think of a charm gathering energy at the tip of a wand -- all of that brightness hidden. 

“We’ll check them out,” Potter says. “We can feed your memory of them into the file folder they gave us, and they’ll run their faces at the Ministry.”

“All this fancy new equipment just for to find a cursed object and the wizard trying to sell it,” Draco murmurs. “I wish we knew what it was for.”

“Not our place,” Potter says quietly, but Draco can tell from the sudden tension around his mouth that it bothers him as well. All they really know is what the item looks like — small as a human palm, crystalline and blue — and that Draco’s Mark is likely to respond to it somehow. Their orders are remarkably vague and Draco may not be in the position to comment on it, but it does nag at him.

“Any one of them could be Polyjuiced or Glamoured,” Draco says, returning to the original subject.

“Yeah, but maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll have used the identity before.” Potter rests a light hand on his shoulder, and Draco forces himself to stay relaxed — to lean into it, even. “You ready to go shower before dinner?”

“Yes. Grab my towel?”

Potter hops up and retrieves his towel from one of the sunning chairs as Draco hauls himself out of the water. He pats himself dry and feels Potter’s hand slip around his waist to pull him flush, wetting Potter’s skin from chest to hip. Potter ducks his head into the curve of Draco’s throat and kisses him there, once, twice, then puts his mouth close to Draco’s ear. Draco goes a bit dizzy from the unexpectedness of the sensations, which send little shocks of pleasure straight to his groin. “I need to talk to you in the room.”

Draco huffs a little, but keeps his expression loose and besotted. “I figured as much, you idiot,” he whispers acidly, giving Potter a fond smile and tucking a lock of his wild black hair behind his ear. “You didn’t need to give me a hard-on to get that point across.”

Potter looks startled, as if only just realising that the neck kissing could have that effect, and Draco is slightly mollified -- until Potter glances down to see the truth of it and starts laughing. “S-sorry,” he gets out.

Draco wraps the towel around his waist as haughtily as he can manage and takes the hand Potter offers. He tries his best to break at least one or two of the fingers in his grip on the way back to their room.

***

“What is it?” Draco snaps when they get back to their room. He immediately grabs his pants from the foot of the bed and slips them on.

Potter shakes his head, mouth tight, putting a palm up for silence. Draco sits on the bed and chews on his lip — the only nervous habit he still has from the war — as Potter pulls a small, leather pouch from his bag. He opens it and draws out the familiar length of—

Draco tries not to goggle, he really does, but… It’s just that no one has seen Potter use a wand in _years_. He doesn’t use it now, in fact — simply palms it reassuringly as he wandlessly casts a series of extra privacy charms over the ones they set up when they arrived. But the very presence of the holly wand between them is as jarring as being asked to shake hands with someone long thought dead. 

When Potter’s finished, he grabs a pair of joggers from his bag and tugs them on, then sits down next to Draco on the bed.

“That’s your holly wand,” Draco blurts -- rather eloquently, he thinks, for the amount of surprise he feels.

Potter shakes his head impatiently. “The wizard had magic-revealing charms set up around the communication site. It took me over an hour to infiltrate it enough to set up a charm that would alert us when it was in use but I had to request contact instead, or he might have bolted; his wards were too intricate to track without tipping him off. Not while people could potentially see me.”

“Alright.” Draco considers. This moves their schedule up some. “Response is usually within twenty-four hours?”

“Yeah.” Potter exhales. Gives him an apologetic glance. “Yes. Then the next contact drop to see if we’re approved for a meet. I know this changes things.”

“Not really,” Draco says thoughtfully. “We may have get the lay of the land, but Shacklebolt couldn’t really have just expected my Mark to flare up randomly around someone. He had to know that we’d need to pose as buyers eventually.” He hesitates. “The use of multiple drops is unusual for an item that needs to be quickly moved. It seems… more deliberate.”

Potter gives him a clipped nod, frowning.

“What I want to know is why the extra charms around the room,” Draco continues, watching him closely. Potter’s oddly restless — fingers drumming against his thigh, knee juddering. He tends to be rather expressive in general, but this is… different.

Potter’s frown intensifies. He opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it immediately, a confused look crossing his face. “I-I don’t know. Defensive magic flared up at me when I began unlocking the wards. But mostly it’s that… I got a sense of something at the drop sight. Like— an echo of magic I recognised. It made me uneasy.”

“You think we know the wizard?”

“No, it’s something else,” Potter says instantly. His shoulders relax at the immediacy of his own answer, as though he hadn’t been sure. His mouth curls up in a self-deprecating smile. “You think I’m mad now.”

Draco snorts. “I’ve always thought you were _mad_ , Potter.” He sniffs, shrugging. “But I’ve long had a healthy appreciation for your instincts, so.”

Potter is quiet for a moment. He taps two fingers just above Draco’s bare knee and pauses, leaving them there. “Thanks, Malfoy.”

Draco stares at Potter’s hand, tanned and lean, and the two fingers resting against his skin. He looks up to find Potter studying him in that way he has that’s always made Draco feel so uncomfortable, as though Draco were a riddle and if Potter could only solve him, he’d—

“You’re welcome,” Draco manages, voice gone husky. Hearing it, Potter slides his hand closer, cupping the top of Draco's thigh with his warm, slightly damp palm. Draco looks up at him; Potter’s eyes are on his hand, pupils dilated and gaze fixed. Draco clears his throat. “This is not a good idea.”

“Right,” Potter agrees softly. “We’re working.”

“It wouldn’t be a good idea anyway,” Draco says, shaky but unable to bring himself to shift away as Potter’s thumb begins stroking the soft flesh of his inner thigh. He holds himself still, refusing let himself tremble visibly from the touch. “We tried it once.”

“Not really,” Potter says in that same hushed tone. “You went home.”

“We were drunk,” Draco reminds him. It earns him a faint smile.

“They have liquor here,” Potter says. The pad of his thumb feels like a brand.

“Yes,” Draco breathes out. He jerks and moves his leg away when Potter’s thumb ghosts a little higher. “And we’re friends. And we’re _working_. So why not get distracted: let’s get pissed and shag a bit, and let a Dark wizard get away with moving a mysterious, dangerous object.”

“You’re avoiding this,” Potter says flatly. “You have been for a while.”

And isn’t that just rich. 

“I want to get back to work,” Draco says, drawing on the deep well of control that has always served him when he's needed it. “And to shelve this discussion for a better time; preferably long after we’re both in our graves.”

Potter snorts. “I thought you’d gotten over your cowardly instincts a long time ago, Malfoy.”

“Self-preservation is not cowardly.” Really, the defence just slips out, but Potter pauses to think it through. Draco’s neck warms — he can practically see the cogs whirring in Potter’s head — and he checks the clock on the nightstand for something to do. “Dinner in an hour. Would you like to shower first, or can I?”

“You go. I think you need it more, right now,” Potter says with an unsubtle, downward flick of his eyes. As always, his cock responds to the touch of Potter’s gaze, jerking.

Draco stands and flips him two fingers, sweeping past him to the loo.

***

Fortunately, Potter leaves off the discussion over dinner; even more fortunately, he takes Draco to the fully-clothed dining room, where they’re served a rather sumptuous meal. If they weren’t finding subtle ways to talk about the case the whole time, Draco might even feel as if it were a _date._ Which is not unheard of for newlyweds, but there’s an element of uncertainty hovering around Potter that Draco doesn't like. Potter seems distracted as they bounce ideas back and forth, continuously looking about the room like he's trying to catch any stray glimmers of magic. They can trail about like loose threads behind Dark wizards sometimes, as the darkness slowly unravels the mind — the way it did with Draco's aunt — but the jumpy way Potter seems to search for them puts Draco on his back foot.

Suddenly, Potter slides a hand over his and draws Draco closer across the table. “Businessman, six o’clock,” he murmurs. 

Draco smiles and waits for a moment before pulling back and casually glancing around, not letting his eyes land on anything in particular. Businessman is wearing a three-piece suit, though most of the other diners are slightly more casual. He sits at the bar again, perusing the menu.

“Can you attempt Legilimency?” Potter says under his breath. Draco starts a bit and glances over again.

“It's a little far,” he says after a moment of consideration. “And some muggles perform Occlumency without realising. Besides which, I’m not that good at it; he might know I’m trying to breach him.”

Potter chokes, coughing out the water he was about to swallow. He puts down his glass and picks up a linen napkin, patting his damp shirt. “After what I saw today, I’d say that’s a safe bet,” he snickers when he gets his breath back.

Draco rolls his eyes and gives Potter a little kick to the shin, more pleased at the compliment than he’s willing to admit or examine. Potter’s mouth tips up to one side. “What about you?” Draco asks, just as quietly.

“No. I’ve learned Occlumency, but was never able to," his lips quiver, “ _breach_ someone. In that way.”

It’s on the tip of Draco’s tongue to follow up on that with a ribald comment, but glares instead. “You might be able to make it seamless — I’ve heard that when it’s done wandlessly, it’s often undetectable.”

Potter wavers and finally gives a slow shake of his head. “Too uncomfortable with it. Even if I’d been better trained, that alone would ensure it was an unpleasant experience, right?” Draco nods, and Potter leans back in his chair, stroking a foot against Draco’s ankle. “The server has been gone a while, love — would you mind getting me a drink at the bar?”

It’s not an order, but there’s something uncompromising about the request anyway. Draco purses his lips. He rises and brushes a kiss over Potter’s temple and murmurs, “I’m only checking for shields.”

“Yeah.”

At the bar, Draco sits on a stool and waits for the bartender’s attention. Businessman sits two stools away and Draco allows his focus to tunnel, mind reaching out in a whisper to investigate. The smoky, questing tendrils he visualizes to aid him are almost immediately buffered as they reach the man—surrounding him but not sinking into his skin.

Carefully, Draco begins to retract his probe, glancing at Potter to give him a small nod. But as soon as his gaze lands on Potter's face, a swarm of pain clusters in Draco's forehead. Potter’s shields blast into his mind with force, like the ricochet of a curse. Draco bites back a gasp, recoiling his mind sharply as Potter sits up straighter and looks at him, concerned.

Draco sits, panting lightly and composing himself as the pain fades. He's shaky and feels mentally nauseated. Why the bloody hell does Potter need a shield so strong, and how is it possible he can’t perform Legilimency if he can do _that?_ Draco doesn’t even think the Dark Lord utilised Occlumency to such a degree. Then again, no one would have ever dared to try to peek into his mind.

The bartender comes over and Draco orders two whiskeys. He’s so shaken, he barely notices when Businessman gets up to leave, passing right behind him — not until his Mark twists in the way he’ll never become accustomed to. It’s not the burn he’d felt when it was seared onto his skin, but a sensation of… greedy _hunger_ , as though the snake, uncoiling, is demanding to be fed.

Still not completely steady from his encounter with Potter’s shield, the slithering against his forearm makes Draco shudder involuntarily and when the bartender brings over their drinks, Draco knocks his own back quickly. Then, for good measure, he swallows Potter’s, too.

He heads back to the table. Potter’s eyes are green-black with worry, but the smile on his face is casual and amused. “Got thirsty?”

“Mmhmm.” It comes out grimmer than Draco’d intended, so he smiles and bends at the waist. He kisses Potter deeply, mouth moving firmly against Potter’s surprised lips.

He doesn’t know where it comes from. He could just as easily whisper in Potter's ear, then take his hand and lead him out. But there’s something in Draco -- a combination of fear and loathing and ache -- that needs the contact, and for once he can’t make himself question his own motives.

Potter makes a low, muffled sound, his startlingly cool hands coming up to cup Draco’s cheeks. He takes control of the kiss quickly, slanting his head to the side and slipping his tongue into Draco’s mouth and, _Merlin_ , Draco had forgotten what a skilled kisser he was by half. He rubs his tongue against Potter’s and plucks at the collar of his shirt as Potter stands and winds an arm tightly around his back. He tastes like wine and scallops.

“We’re making a scene,” Draco says when Potter finally allows him to breathe, pulling back with a gasp of his own. “Let’s go back to our room, darling.”

“Yeah,” Potter says hoarsely, his palm resting on the small of Draco’s back, the tips of his fingers firm on the upper curve of his arse. His eyes are unfocussed but Draco can see the moment they clear, the moment Potter is able to process that Draco’s used a term of endearment. His expression shutters into something affectionate, and for a second, Draco allows himself to loathe it, that false adoration hiding the smoulder of honest lust. Potter swallows. “Yes, let’s.”

At once lightheaded and anchored thanks to the simple clasp of Potter’s arm around his waist, Draco leans into him. He's shocky and dizzy from the gut-punch of forces from a few moments ago, but not from Potter’s touch, which is comforting. Potter seems to understand, because he doesn’t release Draco until they arrive back at their room, and then only long enough to open their door and shuffle him inside. Once the door is closed and the privacy charms are back in place, he faces Draco and places firm hands on Draco’s hips. They stare at each other.

“What,” Potter demands, face stark, “the bloody hell _happened_ back there, Malfoy?”

Draco gulps. His hips tingle under the gentle pressure of Potter’s fingers, and he thinks of moving away but can’t bring himself to.

“He definitely has some shields up — I couldn’t tell whether they were muggle or not at first, but—”

“Wait, wait.” Potter sighs deeply when Draco falls silent. Then, looking at him narrowly, Potter leans forward.

Draco sees it coming. There's plenty of time to stop it, this kiss for no reason other than because they want to. But he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t close his eyes. Potter’s gaze is heavy-lidded and careful as his mouth brushes warmly over Draco’s. His eyes flutter shut so Draco closes his too, and then he's awash in sensation: Potter’s slick tongue sliding against his, Potter sucking Draco's bottom lip between his teeth. Their breaths catch and mingle as Potter’s slips his hands up and down the length of his back, and Draco _knows_ this is a bad idea, of course he does — there’s no way Potter doesn’t, as well — but he somehow needs this so very badly that he doesn’t voice any of the dozens of objections wedged in his throat. Not even when Potter’s erection, thick and rigid, presses temptingly against his own.

When Potter finally pulls away, he's breathless, and Draco realises his hands have somehow gone and gotten trapped in Potter’s unruly hair. For all the mess it is, it’s rather silky under his palms and between his fingers; it’s with no small amount of regret that he drops his arms.

“Malfoy,” Potter says roughly. “Are you okay?”

Draco goes utterly still in Potter’s hold. There’s a different, underlying question beyond Potter’s concern. He’s asking if Draco knows what this is, where it’s leading. He’s asking if Draco will surrender to it.

Draco has his pride, still. He wants to say no. He’s known it would come to this since they were given the assignment, goddamn it, though he’d done everything he could think of not to admit it to himself. But their kiss has wiped clean all memory of how to keep distance from this thing he’s so wanted, and the truth falls from Draco’s tongue like a prayer.

“Yes.”

It’s taken him _seven fucking hours_ after their arrival to cave and Draco doesn’t know whether to hate his own weakness or admire Potter the persistent fortitude which so attracts him. He closes his eyes and waits for Potter’s annoying triumph.

But Potter only releases a shuddering breath. He steps away with a gentle squeeze to Draco's hips and settles into a chair a few feet away, studying Draco as he sits down on the bed with a breath.

“All right. So what happened? He had Occlumency up? What makes you so sure he’s a wizard?” Potter asks.

Draco takes a second to gather his bearings. His Mark is still and silent. “When he got up to leave, my Mark reacted. It was responding to Dark Magic — either his, or something in the case he was carrying.”

Potter’s gaze sharpens. “How strong were his shields?”

“Not as strong as yours,” Draco says bitterly, remembering it.

Blinking, Potter frowns. “You tried to use Legilimency on me?” It’s less accusatory than surprised, but Potter’s body has gone subtly tense where he sits.

“No, you daft prick.” Draco huffs. “I was pulling my mind away and merely _looked_ at you. Your shields hit me like a hex to the forehead.” He pauses as something occurs to him. “That could be problem.”

Potter has no trouble following his train of thought. “No. It won’t be. People in general are unable to tell my shields are so strong. You can probably only sense them because of—”

“The Glamour,” Draco finishes for him heavily. “Well. I’d ask why you’re apparently hiding so much, but I’m obviously not going to get an answer, am I?”

“Depends on what you really want to know.”

Draco arches an eyebrow. “I’m supposed to trust you’d be forthcoming?”

Potter's shoulders hitch lazily. “You could try it and see.” But his hesitation after saying so is somehow more believable. “We should contact the Ministry, see if they’ve had any hits on the Polyjuice recognition.”

It’s a reprieve from whatever is happening between them and Draco finds himself grateful for it. He nods and pulls out the file charmed to receive communications from the Ministry. It’s empty. 

“Might take longer,” he says doubtfully. “We gave them five potentials.”

“They’d have something by now.”

Draco bites back the snide comment his disappointment urges him to make. He puts away the file and removes another, along with a charmed quill that’s spelled to capture his memory of events. He jots them down quickly on some confidential parchment and presses the flattened scroll into the file, where it promptly turns green and vanishes.

“There’s something else,” he says abruptly.

“Yeah?” Potter hasn’t moved from his position on the chair except to cross one bent knee over his leg. He looks relaxed, barely interested, but there’s something vaguely leashed about the way he’s holding himself.

Draco searches his mind for what’s bothering him. His mind flashes back to the bar, to the Businessman. To the— “Fuck.”

“What?”

Draco checks his wand. “He was reading a menu when I sat down next to him. I think he was planning on eating.”

“Then he felt you.” Potter stands, mouth going tight. His hands stray to his pendant and a moment later, there’s the loud crack of Apparition as a partially clothed, thirty-something woman lands between them. She’s wearing a lanyard with an employee tag.

“Aurors.”

Draco doesn't recognise her, but she looks young and likely has a Glamour on as well. Draco's fleetingly appreciative that he and Potter are unrecognisable so they can avoid the star-struck admiration that Potter routinely fields from newer Aurors -- probably the reason Potter has no regular partner and is paired randomly, per assignment.

Potter cuts to the chase. “Male, dark hair, about thirty-five. Doesn’t go fully nude, carries around a laptop briefcase.”

“Room 510,” she says instantly. “He’s been here for nearly a week. We’ve had our eyes on him, too.”

“Thanks,” Potter says briefly. She gives him a nod and vanishes with another bang. Draco’s grateful for their excessive muffling charms.

Potter retrieves a small phial from his bag and hauls Draco close. “What’re you—”

“Side-along.”

“But you don’t know where room 510 is,” Draco says, alarmed. He tries to squirm away from the unyielding press of Potter’s body.

“Memorised the layout,” Potter tells him.

_Of course_ he did. Wanker.

He relaxes into Potter and feels the sudden nauseating twist, the vacuum of space, as they transport. They land heavily, still gripping each other, to see Businessman calmly reading Wizard’s Monthly. He begins to rise, wanded hand coming up in automatic defence, when Potter mutters “ _Expelliarmus_ ,” under his breath, flicking negligent fingers, which then catch the wand handily.

Draco shivers, irritated with being turned on by that. He wonders what the wizard would say if he knew he’d just been Disarmed by the most famous wizard of all time in his trademark move.

It’s much more attractive when he’s Disarming someone _else_ , no matter the method.

He and Potter step away from each other, and Draco twitches his wrist so his wand flies reassuringly into his grip. He points it threateningly at the man, who has faltered in apparent terror and lowered himself back into his chair. Potter hastens to bind him, and Draco begins to cast rapid-fire revealing charms around the room. The briefcase flies into Draco’s hand and his Mark flares, bright and hot, twisting with sickening demand. He barely controls a yelp, but then Potter is there, taking it from him. His palm covers Draco’s forearm, and the feeling remains but somehow becomes more manageable under Potter's touch.

Potter lets go of him and gives the man a stony glare. “Would you like to tell us about the item?” he asks, voice deceptively mild and at complete odds with the ruthlessness of his expression.

“I don’t have it!” the man squawks, no fight in him. “It’s not— I’m just getting paid for a-a piece of something. For bringing it here.”

Draco points his wand at the man’s head and, at a nod from Potter, blasts into his mind. It’s unpleasant and Businessman’s Occlumency shields are still strong enough to make Draco’s search blurry and vague, but he _can_ discern that the man — Tom — is telling the truth, and comes up with a few other useful tidbits, besides. He frowns, carefully reeling his search back into the calming shadows of his own mind before looking at Potter. “He’s hiding something.”

Potter rolls his eyes, pulling the phial from his pocket. “Well, of _course_ he is. Because why _wouldn’t_ the criminals want to make it as hard as possible on themselves?”

He jerks his chin at Draco and Draco smirks, shaking his head. He points his wand at Tom, whose jaw drops open. Potter pops open the phial and leans over to tip a couple of drops into Tom’s mouth. Draco forces his mouth closed with another flick of his wand, and he and Potter watch for a moment as Tom struggles not to swallow.

Finally, his jaw works and he gasps. Draco loosens his hold on Tom’s mouth, but keeps his wand at the ready.

“So,” Potter says intently. “What’s going to happen when I open this bag?”

“Nothing,” Tom mutters, immediate and resentful. His gaze is on Potter’s knees. “It’s a bit of parchment my grandfather had. Has the steps to a spell, but I don’t think it’s even complete. I can’t even really read it; I just wanted the gold they were offering.”

“They?” Draco asks, Summoning another chair to sit down in.

“Whoever contacted me. It was like they knew about it,” Tom babbles, tugging futilely at his restraints. “They even knew where I should look for it.”

“Who’s your grandfather?” Draco asks, ignoring the glance Potter shoots in his direction. Something about Tom's bone structure…

Miserably, Tom grits out, “Elliot Avery.”

Draco and Potter look at each other. Potter exhales.

“Where did your grandfather get it from?” Draco asks. His pulse kicks into high gear, making him starkly aware of his wrists and the hollow of his throat.

“He was holding it for my father,” Tom says resentfully. “The Dark Lord sometimes had trusted people care for things of hi—”

“Enough." Draco holds up a hand, his forehead breaking out in a light sweat. He drags the back of his wrist over it.

“And you never thought about bringing the offer to the Ministry?” Potter asks, studying Draco before turning back to Tom. “You must know we give financial incentive to anyone who aids in the capture of someone involved in Death Eater activities.”

Tom laughs, a high, wild sound. “ _Incentive?_ ” he spits. “It’s _insulting_. I could get more at the corner of Diagon and Knockturn, peddling my grandfather’s things on the street.”

“He’s not wrong,” Draco feels obliged to point out. Potter waves a dismissive hand at him and Draco shrugs.

“The right thing, then,” Potter continues, not missing a beat.

“I Housed Slytherin,” Tom mutters.

Well, that rankles. “Plenty of Slytherins do the right thing,” Draco says. So what if it’s as often driven by pragmatism as a desire for moral justice?

“Er, yes,” Potter says, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He’s far too amused; even more so by Draco’s glower. “In fact, I almost Sorted there.”

“I could give you a list of people from other Houses who have been seduced by the study of the Dark Arts,” Draco offers coolly, then stops. “Wait, what? You almost _what?_ ”

Potter smirks.

“How does everyone not know this?” Draco wonders aloud, petulantly shocked. It seems horribly unfair. Granted, his House didn’t play the most dignified role in the War, but with the way they’ve all been so villainised — to the point where the idiot in front of them uses his House affiliation as a defence — Draco’s offended that Potter hasn’t offered this information sooner. To the _Prophet_. “To think that for all those years, you could have been Housed in Slyth—”

“I’ll explain _later,_ Daniel,” Potter says. His eyes flick to Tom, sitting bound and silent, gaze having turned more curious than afraid.

Draco rubs a hand over his face. “Right.” He pauses, looking at Tom. “Wait, why were you just sitting in here when we arrived?”

“I was reading,” Tom says, bewildered.

“But— didn’t you leave the bar because…” Draco rephrases. “Why did you leave the bar so soon after arriving?”

Tom appears to struggle with the compulsion to speak, but quickly blurts, “I’d done what I came to do.”

“What was that?” Potter asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Made contact with the bartender and gotten the confirmation for the transfer of gold,” Tom mutters sullenly. “I’ll be leaving before the bid.”

It feels natural to exchange another one of those weighted glances with Potter. “The bid? What bid? When?” Potter says after a beat.

“For the item,” Tom tells them. “I don’t know what it is. It’s night after tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“Dunno. I’m leaving as soon as I can,” Tom says, looking away.

Draco sighs, raking a hand through his hair. Their list of possible suspects has grown, if members of the sodding _staff_ are in on some sort of smuggling/black market conspiracy.

“Hm.” Potter sounds bored, gives a little shrug even, but as someone who’s spent more than half his life trying to read Potter’s expressions, Draco can tell he’s interested. _Very_ interested. Potter reaches into the bag and comes out with a single piece of parchment, and Draco's Mark twists again unpleasantly. The Dark Lord must have held it or charmed it, or— or been in the fucking _room_ with it. He claps a hand over his forearm and the bow of Potter’s mouth draws down angrily. He flashes a look of such contempt at Tom that he shrinks as far away as he’s able, bound as he is.

“You okay, Daniel?” Potter asks gruffly.

“Fine.” Draco straightens his shoulders and releases his arm, arranging himself in a negligent pose.

Quickly, Potter makes a duplicate of the parchment and returns the original to the laptop case. As soon as it’s out of visibility, the throbbing in Draco’s arm eases. 

“Sorry about this,” Potter says, not sounding sorry at all, then flicks his fingers at Tom. Immediately, his eyes go sightless, his face panicked, mouth moving silently.

“You could have explained what you were going to do,” Draco says, amusement warring with petty satisfaction at Tom’s fear. 

“He’s deaf, too,” Potter says, eyes glinting smugly at his own maliciousness. His lip curls, and with it something low in Draco’s midsection does too, warmly. He can’t help but feel that Potter’s disgust is partly due to the infuriating protectiveness he tends to feel—which is telling. “Anyway, I needed to.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Well, we can’t exactly bring him in, can we?” Potter asks practically. “So—”

“Obliviate and monitor?” Draco murmurs. It makes sense. If Tom Apparates away or if they arrest him, it would undoubtedly scare the people behind the plan into bolting.

Potter nods, but he looks frustrated. He doesn’t like people getting away with things, even temporarily, Draco knows. But Potter is much, much smarter than many take him for, and Draco appreciates that he's willing to sacrifice his notions of immediate justice when the situation calls for it.

Draco extends his wand and murmurs the spell. As Tom’s eyes go dreamy and blank, Potter releases the sensory-binding charm, and Tom leans back a bit in his chair, eyelids sagging shut. Potter stands, pocketing the parchment copy he’d made.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.” Potter steps closer to him. He slides an arm that feels entirely too proprietary around Draco’s waist, narrowing his bottle-green gaze. And Draco goes, confused about his own willingness as he steps into the relative shelter of Potter’s body. He’s fractionally shorter than Draco is, but there’s something calming about being pressed against him -- perhaps the hum of the magic that coasts over and vibrates against his skin, or the attraction Draco has always felt, finally being soothed in some small way.

Perhaps it’s just that it’s Potter, being who he is, wanting to protect everyone.

***

Draco is on his third watered-down gin at the restaurant bar as he surveys the room. After dinner hours, people revert to various stages of nudity, and he’s surprised to find it less and less shocking. He’s gamely stripped down to his pants to better blend, but has yet to feel that sense of freedom that Alice mentioned at the pool; mostly, he just feels a bit chilly. He considers heading back to the warmth of the hotel room, but Potter is there and Draco is in no hurry to return to his doom.

After Apparating back to their room, Potter had spent several long seconds just holding him, heavy-lidded eyes on Draco’s mouth, on his face, before letting go. Even the short contact had caused something warm and languid to puddle in Draco’s belly, in his groin, the way it often did when they were alone together. And Draco keeps expecting Potter to press the advantage when he has it, though of course the sod is too honourable to do so. 

It was his disappointment, really, that had sent him running to see if he could talk to the bartender as Potter transferred the parchment in for examination. But of course the bartender had completed his shift, and so Draco had wandered a while, not quite sure what he was looking for, until he’d found himself back at the bar, nursing his own cowardice.

The problem is that he’s always been too delighted with Potter’s attention. He’d transmuted it into something different when they’d been at school; there would have been no way to function normally had he acknowledged the fact that it was visions of green eyes and a crooked smile that he wanked to. Not with his father being who he was, not with the Dark Lord eventually settling in his ancestral home. Not with the expectations of his parents; those, above all.

But as adults who’d developed a tense working relationship when they’d first been paired on a case, he’d been disallowed those same delusions. He finds Potter bloody fascinating and always has. The revelation of Potter’s sexual preferences, splashed across the papers years prior, had eased some of their interactions over time into something friendly — friendly enough to complain about the press over a drink or two, at least. That it was occasionally flirtatious as well had left Draco in a state of utter disbelief that the fascination could be a mutual thing.

He thinks it was — that it is. Draco’s not fool enough to discount Potter’s obsession (justified though it may have been) with him in school, or the way they tentatively connected once Draco learned to stop being a complete tosser around him. Potter _still_ watches him, in fact; his eyes linger on Draco when they run into each other in the halls, or when they’re paired for a practice duel in the training room. He wants to take the opportunities offered, wants to let himself fall into bed with the stupidly gorgeous, reckless man who has been unsubtly chasing after his arse since the night they’d almost shagged.

Except... That night, Potter had made it clear — when he’d pressed one muscled thigh between Draco’s legs and gasped as Draco had rutted against him, fumbling with his flies — that he was interested in the night, and no longer. He’d said it hoarsely, wantonly, as though Draco wouldn’t be cracked open by the statement, just before he’d shoved his tongue into Draco’s mouth again.

_I need to know what it’s like to fuck you, Malfoy,_ he’d whispered. _Just this once. It’s been hell on my focus at work._

Draco would have laughed at how insulting a come-on it was if he hadn’t been so shaken by his own lust and spiralling disappointment. He’d had plenty of one-offs before, but the idea of looking at Potter in the morning, of having him or being had by him once and never again, was so patently distasteful that his erection had wilted. He’d blamed the excessive drink and gone home, pulling back from the confusing tangle their interactions had become.

He doesn’t think Potter’s intentions are any different now. Potter is surprisingly cagey and doesn’t trust anyone beyond his small circle. He answers personal questions in the vaguest of ways, keeps things light and casual with anyone else. He’d been photographed snogging a different wizard the week after his encounter with Draco — not that he ever stopped approaching Draco with subtle innuendos, with light-hearted flirting. Potter knew, or _knows,_ Draco suspects, that Draco had faltered because of his own bloody pride.

But it’s come to a head, this thing between them. Potter’s kiss in their room, his solicitousness, his roused protective instincts… All of it has combined into the most heady, toxic sort of potion, which Draco has drunk it down, knowingly.

He grits his teeth and finishes his drink, then heads through the lodge to the front desk, where he saw the Auror from before on duty as he’d walked the grounds. She’s alone, thankfully, a professional smile pasted on. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, thank you.” Draco smiles back genially. He lowers his voice. “We need an entire list of staff, their functions, the amount of access they have, and the hours they work.”

She nods thoughtfully, clicking buttons on the computer with such ease there’s no way she isn’t muggle-born. Even half-bloods, when raised in a wizarding household, tend to look awkward around muggle technology.

“I’ll need a few hours,” she says, her eyes moving over the screen.

“Bring it by in the morning.”

“Will do.” She passes over an extra plastic room-key card and Draco takes with a nod and another smile as though it was the reason he’d stopped.

He heads back to their room with the speed of a Flobberworm, hoping Potter will have gone to sleep, hoping he can stave off the complications of his own decision a little longer. But Draco has never been lucky, not once in his life, and tonight is no exception -- Potter is waiting, patiently sifting through documents, when Draco comes in through the door.

Draco sighs. “Anything on the translation?”

Potter shakes his head, a lock of sooty black hair falling over his forehead, obscuring his scar. “In the morning.”

“We’ll have a list of employees and their hours by then, too,” Draco says, tossing his fake key-card in the bin and dropping into a chair.

Potter grimaces. He waves his hand over the parchment spread out over the bed and watches dispassionately as it reassembles into the appropriate file-folders, then winks out of sight — presumably, into their bags.

“Enjoy your gin?” he asks quietly.

Draco snorts, but he feels strangely pleased at the echo of his own thoughts being solidified in such a perfect example. “You’re just never going to stop following me, are you? Bloody get over it, Potter; I’m on your side now, remember?”

“You were gone for a while,” Potter says without a hint of apology. “I was concerned. I went looking. It’s different.”

“I suppose.” But not by much.

Draco studies him for a moment. “When we almost fucked—” he starts, then shakes his head and falls silent as he works out what to say.

Potter straightens on the bed, muscles going taut and alert, but thankfully keeps his mouth shut.

Fortifying himself with a deep breath, Draco says, “What are you looking for, Potter? You must know that shagging will change our working relationship. Does your curiosity go so deep that you’re fine with that?”

“With you, Malfoy, my curiosity has _always_ been that deep,” Potter says, voice heavy with irony. He pauses. “I thought to get you out of my system.”

The confession surprises him and Draco manages the barest of nods. “I’m aware.”

“That’s why you left.”

Draco contains the strange surge of pleasure that fills him, that Potter is so attuned to his thoughts. It’s quickly chased by something harder and darker; a kernel of bitterness he hopes doesn’t show on his face.

“Don’t get me wrong; I don’t have any desire to be _in_ your system, in any way other than that,” Draco tells him. “But I dislike being used and cast aside. It’s not in my nature.”

“Right.” Potter’s breath leaves his lungs loudly; his cheeks puff out with it. “If it helps, I don’t know if it would have worked. Nothing else I’ve done has.”

“Nothing else?” Draco asks.

Potter shrugs. “Stalking you, saving your life, testifying for you. Working with you, getting to know you.” He licks his lips, face utterly at ease and in stark contrast to the seriousness of his words. “I’ve been trying to get you out of my system for a while, Malfoy,” he adds, sounding surprised.

Draco blinks. “Fuck off; you’re not allowed to confuse me _every single time_ you talk!”

Potter’s mouth twitches with the trace of a smile. “I’m not being evasive.”

“Then what the hell do you mean?” Draco's palms are sweating; he feels fourteen again.

“Well,” Potter says slowly, tilting his head, “I’m not exactly sure. I want to fuck you. I think we work well together. I think we’re… friends. Right?”

Draco considers whether the occasional drink or shared plate of chips after work can be considered friendship, when Draco has tried so hard to put distance between them in the last year. Shagging someone for the experience and brushing off any personal questions almost certainly isn’t. He frowns, but gives a wobbly sort of nod.

“Well, then, I mean that,” Potter says.

“So you’re looking for…”

“Dunno. Friendship. Sex. Bonus if it’s with someone I don’t have to worry will rat me out to the papers,” Potter says honestly. “I want you. You obviously want me, too.”

Draco glowers at him. Potter’s such an arrogant prick that Draco’s brain feels itchy whenever he’s actually right. 

“So I guess the question is really what _you_ want." Potter stretches out, dangling his legs over the side of the bed and leaning back on his palms. It’s not an overtly sexual pose, except that Draco has been fantasising about Potter in his bed for so long, there’s really no pose that _can’t_ be considered sexual.

“I’d like to sleep with you, too,” Draco admits, proud when his voice comes out smoothly. Potter’s mouth twists into a satisfied little smirk and he starts to sit up, but Draco holds up a grudging hand. He’s a Malfoy, and though his name doesn't bring him the sense of pride it used to, he can't help the twist in his stomach at the thought of being the nothing more latest scandal in the Boy Hero’s love life. “But I don’t feature being something to get out of someone’s system. Even _if_ ,” he stresses, “that’s not still the case, you’ve given me no indication that you want an actual friendship with me other than telling me you trust me not to call the papers and detail the exact dimensions of your cock.”

Potter snortd and scratches his nose as if acknowledging the truth of it. “Fine. Are you asking for… for fidelity? I’m not sleeping with anyone else right now. I won’t fuck around until we end it, if you don’t. We can see where it goes.”

While the phrase _see where it goes_ is troublingly open-ended, it also causes an embarrassing ripple of hope inside Draco, because it indicates that Potter might not be averse to it actually _going_ somewhere. If he ignores the bit about how Potter thinks it’ll end.

“So, are you talking dating or shagging?” he asks. Just for clarification, really, because at this point it doesn’t matter. He can have pride while he’s balls deep inside Potter. He can be a Malfoy as long as he’s _cogent_ of what’s expected from their dynamic. And anyway, he’s so hard it actually hurts — his cock is straining at the front of his briefs — and he’ll need to do something about that, soon.

For the first time, Potter looks embarrassed. More familiarly, anger thrums beneath the surface of his expression. He flushes, cheekbones going apple-red under his spectacles. “I don’t really date,” he says, sighing. “I… haven’t been able to. And I’m not good at it.”

Draco arches a brow, examining Potter as he bites his lip. From everything he knows, that hasn’t stopped Potter from getting a leg over whenever he’s wanted to. “The press?” he guesses.

With a frustrated sigh, Potter nods. “Yes,” he mutters. Then, surprising Draco, promptly blurts, “No.”

Draco wants to ask, but Potter looks pushed to the tipping point already by the discussion. And anyway, his confusion is edged out by other things: Potter’s fluster so deeply charming that Draco's cock leaks with arousal. “Two things.”

“Yes?”

“No, three,” Draco decides. Potter's mouth quirks. “You’ll have to explain that more fully to me eventually, one. And we don’t fuck around while we’re on duty, two.”

Potter rolls his eyes. “Do you really think I’d have been flirting with you in public if it wasn’t part of our cover? No matter how badly I might want to fuck you?”

“No,” Draco says, because it's true. But Potter’s words cause a shiver of desire to zip down Draco’s spine. He sits up straighter and swallows, something Potter seems to notice, his eyes flaring with interest.

“What’s the third thing?”

“Tell me about your tattoo.”

Potter’s face closes up, turning stony. “You don’t need to know about that.”

The words splash over Draco like a bucket of ice water. He holds himself very, very still, pinned by his own dissatisfaction and Potter’s suddenly furious glare. His throat feels as though he’s swallowed a pile of dust.

“Perhaps not. But I’d like some assurance other than _your word,_ ” Draco says, sneering it, “that you consider me, at least, an actual friend and not one of those wizards who are photographed sneaking out of your home at three in the morning.”

“Something else,” Potter snaps, standing. “You want me so much you can barely look at me at work. For the last year, every time we duel, every time you join the rest of us for drinks, it’s written all over your face. You want me. I’ll give you something else, for Christ’s sake. What do you want.”

It’s not the most seductive way to admit how much he wants Draco, but it’s something. Draco tries not let his surprise at Potter’s insightfulness show, and wonders how all of this got so far out of hand, Potter’s flirting, his own sullen refusals, his unhealthy curiosity. He wonders if there's a breaking point for lust, after which things like _doubts_ and _feelings_ no longer matter.

_What do you want,_ Potter had asked. Draco’s mind flashes briefly to that muggle song Pansy had teased him with in fifth year, charming his pillow to sing into his ear: _Potter and Dra-co, sitting in a tree…_

Draco has blurry memories of fevered, sloppy kisses, of their soft, delighted groans mingling. He’d wanted it then, too — and managed to say no. He asks himself what’s different now, but he’s long since passed the point of ego with the man who stands across from him, vibrating with frustrated desire.

“I need to know something,” Draco admits in a low voice, throat scratchy. He wants Potter in his bed, and the words sound wrong coming from his mouth, sound like the exact things he should never say, let alone allow himself to think. But they pour out in a rapid deluge of thoughtlessness, somehow both easing and intensifying the ache in his chest he’s gotten so accustomed to. “Something others don’t. You show people one thing. Affable, heroic, Harry bloody Potter. Saviour and friend to all. No one knows-- no one _sees_ how much you keep hidden. But I do. I’ve always seen the things you hide. I know you better than you think, Potter, and because of that, I can’t—”

_Let go,_ he means to say. But Potter is looking at him oddly, as though having just been struck by a bolt of lightning to rival the scar on his forehead, and the words fall away.

“I brought my wand,” Potter says suddenly. He turns away and heads to the window, looking out and runs a brisk hand through his hair. “You saw that I brought my holly wand.”

Draco’s stomach jangles with nerves. “I did. I saw.”

“I like having it around. I like the connection to my magic I feel when I hold it. But I’m not allowed to use it outside.” Potter sighs, a swift, loud exhalation. “I mean, I could, but I don’t. I don’t need to, but— I hate that I can’t.”

“Why?” Draco asks. It comes out as respectful as if he were approaching a wounded werewolf — respectful for how much more dangerous Potter seems in that moment.

“I can’t risk being Disarmed,” Potter says, voice cracking and unhappy. Draco wants to see his face but is afraid to move. “You know how it goes, if you are. You of all people know. The way a wand changes its allegiance.”

“This is about the Elder wand,” Draco says, going momentarily numb. The ramifications are too astonishing to even consider and his words come out as barely more than a breath, but Potter’s bare shoulders flinch and draw in a bit.

“Yes.”

Draco stands and heads over to where Potter is standing. The skin of Potter’s back, gleaming in the low light of the lamps, shifts as his muscles grow tense with the awareness that Draco is behind him, his back heaving slightly. Draco presses his hand flat over one of Potter's shoulder blades. His skin is so hot, Draco would wonder whether he were ill if he didn’t already know how powerful magic can affect basic biological reactions.

“Malfoy,” Potter murmurs.

“Harry,” Draco says. The name rings out like a shout, though it’s spoken softly.

Harry turns slowly. Draco keeps his hand on him while he does; it slides over Harry’s shoulder and ends up, resting, over his heart. Harry’s face is etched with conflicting emotions, but the most obvious one is… relief.

“It’s not a tattoo,” Harry tells him quietly. “It’s a brand.”

Draco kisses him.

It’s clumsily done, nothing like the smooth ease of their kiss in the restaurant or the reassuring nature of Harry’s kiss when they got back to the room after. It’s not like the instinctive, heated fumblings in the hallway of 12 Grimmauld Place.

This kiss is measured, but despite that — or perhaps because of it — it doesn't feel as simple as a kiss _should_ when you’re about to sleep with someone. Draco feels the weight of it as his mouth covers Harry’s, the weight of Harry’s bewildering confession and the madness of his own want rushing through him from the simple glimpse of truth Harry shared. Their mouths bump, coasting off one another, and realign with more ease. Harry hesitates when Draco licks at the seam of his mouth, but then he opens it, and when Draco slips his tongue inside, Harry shudders and pulls him closer.

The kiss deepens, becomes more natural, slick and hot against Draco’s mouth. The room swirls around him and Draco hears a moan but isn't sure which of them it comes from, his heart thundering is so loudly in his chest as Harry threads his hands through Draco’s hair with feverish intention. And then Harry's hands are everywhere — the heated, skillful press of them roaming and sliding down the length of Draco’s bare back to cup his arse and draw him into full, grinding contact with Harry’s thick erection. It juts out against him from under Harry’s joggers and Draco’s cock throbs with the overwhelming knowledge that Harry is— that they’re going to—

Harry pulls his mouth away. His lips are shining and swollen, his eyes dark and hypnotically focussed. “Do you bottom?”

It takes Draco a moment to process the question. His hips judder anxiously into Harry’s. His voice is embarrassingly breathless. “I—oh. Both.” He nods, dazed. “Yes. We can do that.”

Walking him back toward the bed, Harry issues a muffled laugh against his lips. “I— Yes. I’d wanted to… I’ve been having this… I thought about…”

His words fade, and they don’t matter really, not when Harry’s easing Draco down and climbing atop him, a firm, solid weight. His glasses are foggy and Draco removes them, twitching his wrist to pull his wand, then levitating them toward the nightstand.

“You’d thought about fucking me?” Draco prompts with a pointed glance when Harry continues to stare at him, eyes veiled. Draco widens his thighs deliberately. “Get to it, then.”

Harry’s hips jerk into his almost involuntarily, and then they’re kissing again, hard, hungry kisses that leave Draco dizzy and panting. He digs his fingers into Harry’s back and ruts upward against his body, tries to wrap a leg around Harry's thighs, but Harry grunts, shifting away. He drags warm, open-mouthed kisses along Draco’s jaw, down the cords of his throat and uses his teeth, scraping them over sensitive spots and biting with expertise. Harrys his hands under the waistband of Draco’s bottoms, moving away to strip them off, to wriggle his own down and kick them away. Then he’s back again, shoulders nestled between Draco’s legs. He turns his head and bites the soft flesh of Draco’s inner thigh. Draco yelps, embarrassingly loud, even as his cock twitches, rising from where it's lying, stiff and flat, on his belly.

“I always thought you’d be a fucking tease, Potter,” Draco huffs, arching his hips. He takes the base of his cock and angles it downward expectantly.

Harry chuckles. “Call me Harry, you prick; we’re married,” he says, and licks a slick stripe up Draco’s cock from root to tip.

Draco throws his forearm over his eyes, reconciling himself to the fact that watching Harry suck him off will result in the whole thing being over too soon. Which it might be, anyway, because—

“Oh my god,” Draco groans as Harry starts tonguing at his slit, dipping the firmed tip into it. His hand, tight around Draco’s prick, smooths the foreskin back in a slow, deliberate stroke, then pulls at it, dragging it up over the head as Harry lavishes attention over the tip with a practised tongue. Draco inhales sharply. “Just —fuck you, Harry — just… Suck it, you bastard.”

“Progress,” Harry says, sounding amused. His lips stretch over the crown and though Draco has some idea that begging would be wrong, he can’t help doing it silently. He grits his teeth and bucks upward, Harry suckling the head of his cock before dipping his head to take in more. And more and more and more until, unbelievably, his nose is brushing the curls at the base of Draco's pelvis Draco gasps as Harry draws his head up and down, tongue moving with light swishes along the underside of his prick. Draco shifts his legs, clenching his arse to propel him further into that slick, sucking heat, and Harry obliges, relaxing his throat and bobbing his head wetly over the shaft of Draco’s prick. A long-fingered hand fondles his balls, tugging them one by one, and Draco is unable to staunch the whine that escapes his throat. Harry makes a sound of pleased acknowledgment, cupping them both and rolling them in his palm. The light callouses there rasp against the over-sensitive skin, and Draco's balls begin to draw closer to him as Harry holds them, plays with them, his mouth sliding up and down in an excruciatingly perfect rhythm over his cock. Draco’s hand falls unthinkingly to Harry’s hair and tangles in all of those wild black strands. 

Harry moans, so Draco grips him tighter, twisting the hair into his fist just as Harry’s free hand slips, slick, into the crevice of his arse. It’s lubed up already and the only thing Draco can assume — with the distant corner of his mind that’s still working — is that Harry has just performed _wandless, wordless magic_ for the sole purpose of fucking him. His fingertip finds Draco’s hole and Harry rubs at it with little, flicking strokes that make Draco writhe and curl his widened legs up, baring himself completely.

Harry draws off his cock for a moment. “You like it,” he announces breathlessly, and Draco’s desire shoves over a touch to allow for reluctant amusement.

“You’re sucking me off and playing with my arse,” he says suppressing the smile that wants to break free. “Yes, I _like_ it, you utter tosser. Do it some more or I’ll murder you.”

“A choice between fucking one of the most gorgeous arses I’ve ever seen or—”

Draco sets a foot on his shoulder and nudges it forcefully. “Less chatting, more sucking,” he orders. His heart twists at the sound of Harry’s laughter, but his amusement fading when Harry obediently begins mouthing at his balls and slips a finger inside him, slow and careful, pumping it steadily deeper. “Get me—get me open for you, yes,” Draco says, and feels more than hears Harry’s rumble of surprised arousal. "God, get me nice and wet."

Harry adds another finger, another. Draco’s arsehole burns as it stretches, skin pulling tight before softening, but Harry shows the same dedication during sex that he does doing anything else and Draco finds himself relaxing, easing into it, bearing down against it, much sooner than he normally would. His arsehole is wet, _sopping_ , and Harry screws his fingers in and out relentlessly, the tips brushing over Draco's prostate on each inner press. It’s too much, and Draco’s cock starts to throb with familiar anticipation of an impending orgasm.

“I’m—” Draco gulps. Tries again. “Harry— Harry. I need you to fuck me.”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles thickly, pulling his fingers out with a gentle twist that causes Draco’s hips to fly up. He tumbles on top of Draco again, sliding the foot that was on his shoulder up and back until Draco’s calf dangles over it. Draco widens his other thigh, until his hipbone threatens pain from the angle. "Hey. Look at me.”

It’s an entreaty rather than an order and Draco pulls his arm away from his eyes and blinks against the sudden light. Harry hovers over him, face flushed and mouth shiny; his eyes are barely more than pupils blown wide, a thread of sea-glass green around them. The moment stretches out and Draco feels the blunt curve of the crown of Harry’s cock prod his hole. He can’t look away, can’t make himself see anything other than his own reflection in Harry’s eyes and — beyond that — something deeper in Harry, as well.

He hisses through his teeth when Harry breaches him, despite the prep that came before. Harry’s cock is thick, opening him up wider and wider as he pushes into him with tiny little ruts. Draco grips Harry’s biceps and rocks his hips up encouragingly. 

When Harry is seated to the hilt, he finally settles. He breathes raggedly for a moment, face stern and unrelenting. But his voice is soft, and breaks with a small catch when he says, “Okay?”

Draco nods, throat working silently. It’s somehow too intimate, this whole thing. Not like he’d thought it would be — facing away on his hands and knees, Harry fucking into him with ruthless strokes. The vision of it Draco's been cradling, disappears like wisps of smoke with every slow pull of Harry’s hand over his cock.

It’s _nothing_ like what he'd imagind as they face each other, eyes locked and bodies connected, and Draco tries to push away the rush of something he’s gotten all too good at ignoring over the years. But linked like this it’s harder, and his chin feels suspiciously soft; his eyes sting. He turns his head to the side to break Harry’s gaze. "It’s good, yeah,” he says hoarsely. He blinks a couple of times and when his vision clears, he turns back and smirks. “Fuck me.”

Harry’s smile is filled with promise. He drags his hips back and snaps them forward, twisting them on the instroke. Draco swallows a gasp, pressing his foot into the mattress towards the sensation as Harry does it again and again, sawing his cock in and out of Draco with precise, almost mechanical proficiency. The angle pounds his cock directly over Draco’s prostate with each brutal push, and several minutes later Draco’s drifting mind snaps back, drawn to reality by a series of his loud moans. He realises that he’s outright _but has stopped doing anything beyond that to help, too lost in the pleasure snaking its way from his arse to his cock and through to the rest of his body. He’s got one hand clenched in the duvet and the other digs tight into Harry’s buttock, fingers growing slick with sweat as Harry’s rhythm picks up and his breath — hot against Draco’s face — starts to sound like a whine._

__

__

He plants his foot again and pumps his hips upward as Harry shoves his cock deeper. Does it more when Harry’s jaw clenches and he squeezes his eyes shut. “Malfoy, I swear to fuck you’d better be close because—”

With some effort, Draco releases the bedcovers and slips a hand between them. Harry comes down on his forearms, hips rocking with abandon as Draco wraps a fist around his aching cock and begins jerking it with short, sharp pumps that work in tandem with Harry’s cock sliding in and out of his arse. He takes a long pull of air and lifts up, fitting his mouth against Harry’s in a messy, wet kiss. Harry moans his name into it, Draco thinks, but he can’t be sure because his balls are drawn up so tight against his body, because Harry is fucking into his arse with his cock, fucking into his mouth with his tongue, and Draco starts to come before he realises it, as blazingly hot as the summer has been, as storm-tossed as the most broken piece of wreckage. His cock pulses so hard it _hurts_ for a second as he stripes long ropes of spunk between them and coats his furiously moving fist. He cries out, shoulders pressing deep into the mattress and hips pumping up, and then Harry is no longer thrusting but grinding his cock in deeper, frantic and erratic and fucking _heavenly_. 

Harry cries out. He buries his face against the curve of Draco’s neck, latching his teeth there as though he’s a damned werewolf but not sinking them in. His hips stutter and then Draco feels a new wash of warmth inside him, feels the powerful twitching of Harry’s cock against his swollen, tender inner muscles, and it spurs Draco on enough to wring out a few last drops of his own climax with a deep groan.

They lay together, breathing harshly for a several stunned moments before Harry reaches down between them, gently disengaging his body and rolling off onto his back. Draco’s leg comes down, half-numb and heavy, and he reaches up with a shaking hand to shove the hair sticking to his forehead back with a wince. 

“Well?” Draco asks, still breathless from the onslaught. “Are we out of each other’s systems then?” He’s joking, of course.

He thinks.

Harry cracks a humourless laugh. “Oh, yeah, absolutely,” he says, even as he reaches over without turning and grasps Draco’s sticky, overstimulated cock, simply holding it, in loosely-curled fingers. But his face is remote and unblinking when Draco looks over.

“Well,” Draco says lightly when Harry doesn’t go on, “at least I don’t have to worry about transfiguring the chair into a bed for one of us to sleep on.”

The fingers around his cock tighten fractionally for a moment, as though Harry’s startled by that — either by the thought that Draco had been planning on it, or by the idea that they could, in fact, sleep together.

“I--” Draco chews on his lip for a moment, hating the crack in his voice. “I mean, I still could… Of course, I’d get the actual bed.”

The silence lasts just a beat too long to be comfortable. “No,” Harry says eventually. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Well, _that_ certainly implies enthusiasm, doesn’t it? Draco relaxes his facial muscles, lest they twist into a scowl. “I don’t particularly _care_ , Potter,” he snaps. “Up to you.”

“Share then.” It comes out flat. Harry releases Draco’s cock and swishes a hand at him, almost aristocratic in how bored the gesture is. The Scourgify from his fingertips is so unexpected — the warmth of it, the arousing sweep over Draco’s sensitive skin, the way it zips inside him and shimmers over his cock — that a thin moan slips out of his mouth before he can catch it. When Harry speaks again, his voice has gone gruff. “Best get in.”

If Harry assumes they’re going to fuck again after his response to the idea of sharing a bed, he’s in for a mean surprise. Draco raises a single eyebrow at him. More to make a point than anything else, Draco Summons a clean pair of pants from his case and wriggles them on, biting his lip at the twinge of pain in his arse.

He heaves himself up and crawls under the covers; the sheets have such a high thread count, Draco could almost swear they’ve been magically charmed for softness. His body aches everywhere, in that deliciously throbbing, swollen way that tends to happen after amazing sex. But his heart feels oddly tender too, as confused and twisted up into knots as it was before they’d talked, or fucked, or — bloody hell — after the first time they’d managed to drink together and talk for more than thirty minutes without arguing bitterly.

Harry slips in too and Draco turns on his side to face away, crowding the edge of the bed. Harry shifts, the covers rustling around them as he settles, then casts the lights out with a breathed incantation.

Several minutes pass in silence, but Draco can’t bring himself to seek sleep. His adrenaline hasn’t dropped yet, as though his body knows to be prepared for the danger that lies ahead.

“I don’t sleep with people,” Harry says into the dark. Draco's shoulders still jerk with disbelief. 

“I’m supposed to be shocked by this news?” Draco rallies. “Wizards are photographed leaving your home — and vice versa — at two in the morning. You haven’t had a serious relationship since—”

“Since Ginny, yeah,” Harry finishes for him. Draco can hear the wry smile in his voice. “And look how long that lasted.”

“At least you can blame that on being gay rather than your complete lack of after-sex etiquette,” Draco says under his breath. But Harry hears it anyway and huffs out a laugh. 

“Not really.”

Draco reluctantly rolls over to his other side because it’s bloody stupid — if Harry is intent on having a conversation — to not even look at him. Harry sighs a bit, scratching at his chest absently. It takes Draco a moment to realise he’s rubbing at the tattoo — or brand. Whatever it is. 

“Potter, if you try to convince me that you’re not gay after fucking my arse like that, you’re dumber than you look.”

Harry’s laugh deepens and his shoulders shake a bit. A tingle of pleasure curls in Draco’s mind. “No. I just mean, I was young, yeah? And I wanted… It was normal. My aunt and uncle were big on ‘normal’ and I guess it got into my head a bit. Thinking that being who I was could be wrong, when I already had all of these eyes on me because of other stuff. So Ginny and I— Well, I would have tried to make it work, regardless.”

There are about a thousand questions Draco wants to ask — about Harry’s mysterious, oft-whispered-about childhood, about why he and Ginevra _did_ break up, about why the hell he’s sharing such things with Draco _now_ , after having been on decent terms with him for so long. He doesn’t think it’s because they just slept together; if that were the case, all of the Potter One Night Stand Exclusives would be riddled with secret pillow talk.

“Why then? Don’t you sleep with anyone?” Draco settles on asking.

Harry sighs. “Nightmares,” he says briefly.

“Everyone has nightmares sometimes,” Draco says. Merlin-to-fuck if _he_ doesn’t. 

“My magic… surged, after the battle. Unexpectedly. It scared us both, that I might hurt her. It got really unstable afterward, and she used to sneak into mine and Ron’s with Hermione so we could sleep—” Harry swallows hard here. Draco waits with bated breath, drawing on every skill he has not to betray his shock or eagerness to know more, or even his bloody _presence_ still in the room, if it might stop Potter from continuing.

Who knew that a skill learned by sharing a table with the Dark Lord would come in handy with Harry Potter, as well?

Harry’s voice goes raspy and his words flutter out fast, as though they’ve been caged and have been searching for escape. “It attacked her. It left Ron alone, left Hermione alone. But it went after Gin, because she was right next to me. I woke up and it was wrapped around her throat, great, glowing green cords of my magic, strangling her like a snake, and it took Hermione hitting me with a hex before Ginny could breathe. Like I’d done it on purpose. I almost killed her because of my nightmares.”

There are a few beats of silence before Draco realises he’s meant to respond here. It filters into his mind that Harry might be — might be _warning_ him. 

“That’s unfortunate,” he says at last. “But since I’m neither a seventeen-year-old child nor afraid of you, I don’t think it’ll be an issue.”

It’s not entirely true. Harry scares him far more deeply than Draco could admit to himself before this assignment. But his words seem to have their desired effect, because Harry gives a sober nod. 

Draco intentionally rolls over again, presenting his back, and Harry snorts quietly. The sheets shift, and they fall asleep like that, not touching.

***

The cock prodding his bare bottom is the first thing Draco becomes aware of, sometime before the sun breaks over the horizon.

“I’m fairly certain I was wearing boxers last night,” he mumbles into his pillow, voice grainy.

“Oh no, you must be wrong about that,” Harry murmurs in his ear. “I’m sure I would have remembered.”

Draco pushes his arse back further, feeling Harry’s stiff length press against one cheek. “My mistake.”

“I’d like to take you hard,” Harry says, in a slightly inquisitive tone.

A shiver skitters over Draco, even though he sort of feels like the question cancels out the point. Noble-as-fuck Gryffindors, determined to ask before shelling out a good, rough buggering. 

“If you think you can,” Draco says, yawning. He rolls onto his stomach from his side, pressing his cheek into the soft pillowcase, and waves a hand in the air. The slide of his morning erection feels delicious against the sheets, and it doesn’t even occur to him to say no.

He expects— Well, he’s not entirely sure. Another energetic, soulful romp, perhaps. Definitely another orgasm. But not the sound of Harry hissing, not tight hands gripping his hips too hard and yanking them up so Draco’s arse is high in the air, his knees pushing hard into the mattress as he flails a bit and tries to get his wits about him, still barely awake. He doesn’t expect the way Harry spreads his arse cheeks wide, or the immediate nudge of Harry’s cock against his swollen rim. He doesn’t expect the way Harry doesn’t wait before shoving in an inch, past the resisting ring of muscle.

“Bloody fuck,” Draco groans, muffled, even as he pushes back to try and get more of Harry inside. “A finger or two is considered polite.”

“Wanted to fuck you,” Harry grunts, sliding in a bit more. Thank Merlin he remembered to slick his cock. “Not have tea. You said yes.”

Draco’s muscles clench automatically around the intrusion, but Harry’s prick pushes inexorably forward, quick little shoves, splitting him open. Draco has a sudden image of what it must look like, and a moan issues from his lips. With a final, forceful press, Harry is embedded completely, and he doesn’t wait before drawing away and driving in, doesn’t wait for Draco to give permission or catch up. Draco thinks he’ll die of desire as his cock plumps to full hardness and smacks against his belly with the power of Harry’s thrusts.

He scrambles a little, fingers fisting in the sheets as Harry fucks him until he’s jolted so forward by the rocking that he has to place one hand on the headboard. His knuckles whiten and he tries to keep himself in place as Harry pounds into him, gasping, his balls slapping against the curve of Draco’s arse, his thighs a warm, furred press against the back of Draco’s own.

“Do it, goddamn you,” Draco chokes, the spongy, ridged head of Harry’s cock dragging over his prostate again and again. Harry snarls behind him, plunging deep, then drapes over his back and takes Draco’s cock in a brutal fist, wanking him almost mindlessly as he grinds his own prick inside and starts to come. 

Draco’s lower back dips and he ruts hard into Harry’s fist, fucking himself from both ends as Harry gasps and goes tense and unmoving but for his cock, which pulses in Draco’s arse. Draco climaxes messily with a deep groan a moment later, striping his pillow — which has somehow worked its way beneath him —with long ropes of come.

Harry’s chest rests against his back, slick with sweat. After a moment, he heaves himself up, gently removing his prick before giving Draco’s hip a squeeze.

“Thanks,” he says breathlessly. “I needed that.”

“No problem,” Draco returns archly, more amused than he’s willing to admit. He shoves his pillow to the floor and grabs Harry’s, stuffing it under his elbow and sinking down while his skin cools. “Can we go back to sleep before we’re on duty again?”

“That’s now, pretty much. You have time for a piss and a shower if you want, but that’s it.”

Draco turns his head to scowl at Harry, who’s put his glasses on and sits up against the headboard, flipping through their communicative Ministry file. “How long have you been awake?”

“Just a bit. Don’t worry about it.”

With a sigh, Draco heaves himself up. “Anything?”

“The parchment was in a dead wizarding language; some archaic form of Latin,” Harry says absently, still reading. 

His legs are stretched out in front of him and crossed and his cock lays flaccid against his left thigh. Draco wants to touch it and so he does, as though it’s something he gets to do all the time — fondle Harry Potter’s prick without the expectation of an immediate fucking. His courage is rewarded with a small, swift smile before Harry’s eyes return to the parchment in front of him. Draco’s hand drops away. 

“Alright then. I don’t suppose we have a translation?”

“A bit. Something about soul-harvesting,” Harry says. 

Draco considers that for a moment. “Not Dementors.”

“No, although I thought so too at first. It’s the incantation of a spell, and—”

“Dementors are bred of Darkness and Misery, got it,” Draco finishes for him. He purses his lips and pins Harry with a look that has him raising expectant brows. He hesitates. “Granger is an Unspeakable.”

Harry’s face twists. “She is,” he says cautiously, as though Draco isn’t supposed to know. He’s not, technically, but they all wear those same stupid robes, all work on the same floor. It’s like any time Harry almost died at Hogwarts; the whole school knew about it, though no one was supposed to mention it directly.

“We need to find out more about that stone,” Draco says. “Whatever isn’t in our own files. Soul Magic— It’s a lot darker than it sounds. Obviously, there are bonding spells and such, which is what most people associate it with. All that nonsense about soulmates. But… harvesting—”

“I know,” Harry says, voice grim.

“Do you think she’d help? See if she can find out anything?” Draco frowns. “And do we have any way of contacting her that the Ministry won’t know about?”

“Yeah, she’d help if I asked. If she could,” Harry says slowly, then surprises Draco with a sudden grin. He gestures to the muggle telephone on the nightstand. “And as a matter of fact, we do.”

***

Draco half-rises to accept Harry’s kiss as he joins him at the breakfast table. It’s a relief to see him — finally. It was unnerving as fuck to find out that dinner was the only meal during which clothing was required in the formal dining room. While many people have opted to wear knickers and pants and shirts to dine, many others have not, and Draco discovered upon first entering that he was right — it isn’t the most appealing sight to behold.

Except for Harry, who makes Draco’s mouth flood with saliva. He’d likely be exasperated that Harry hadn’t mentioned the no-clothing-necessary breakfasts, except frankly, he doesn’t mind watching Harry walk around in tight black boxer-briefs. 

“Hello, darling,” Harry murmurs with a smirk. He sits down and places a napkin over his lap. 

“Hope you don’t spill your coffee,” Draco says, taking a sip of his own. “Not much protection.”

Harry’s eyes twinkle. “Oh, did I forget to mention the dinner-only thing?”

“Yes, and thank goodness.” Draco snorts. “I don’t know if I’d have been able to brave the dining room without these,” he says, indicating his khaki trousers and white button-down. It’s a bit hot, even with short sleeves — sweat has already caused his shirt to cling to his lower back, despite the air-conditioning — bu better than the alternative. Draco genuinely wonders how they manage to keep this place sanitary without cleaning charms.

“Well, obviously, people don’t _have_ to be naked,” Harry says, glancing at the few other people who are decently covered as well. He picks up his menu. “And I enjoyed the aesthetic of you without _that_ ,” he adds, significantly, “quite a bit, last night. And this morning.”

Draco ignores the little, unsteady rush of pleasure. He’s certainly not going to boost Harry’s ego any further by returning the compliment. “Well?” he asks instead, lowering his voice and leaning in. “What did Granger say?”

He’d been shooed out of the room to get a table after his shower. It had been an obvious request for privacy, which might have pricked Draco’s sensibilities a bit after the previous night, but they hadn’t made each other any explicit promises except to be decent. To be friends, whatever that means.

“She’ll have something for us by the end of the day,” Harry says. “Apparently, there’s a new project on Dark items, which was all she could tell me before her tongue went Silent. She’ll figure out a way around it, though, and get us something. She has supervisory purview.”

“Good.”

Harry’s mouth creases at the corners. “It was a good idea, to contact her.”

“You probably thought of it first,” Draco says wryly, "but decided not to put her in any unnecessary risk. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Harry says, appearing disturbed. He looks at Draco oddly.

“What?”

“Nothing.” The shake of his head is slow, as if he wants to say something more but won’t let himself. There’s a pause — just a bit too long — and then Harry jiggles his shoulders a little, forcibly relaxing them. He gives another minute shake of his head, and his smile grows easier. “I was thinking about today. We haven’t gotten contact notification from the seller yet, so we could do some more basic recon. The— A staff member indicated that the art class has some interesting students in it. And then perhaps a long walk of the grounds would be good.”

Draco hates having conversations in code, particularly when someone is as bad at it as Harry apparently is. But there’s no fucking way he’s going to open up his mind to Harry’s battering form of Occlumency again. Anyway, it’s not important; obviously one of the suspects they have is in the art class, and whatever Harry meant about the walk can be explained later.

“Sounds fine,” Draco says. He nods at the server, carrying two platters over to them. "I ordered for you.”

“Thanks.” Harry’s lips curl up, pleased. He seems surprised again. For what reason, Draco has no bloody clue; they’re supposed to be married, aren’t they? They spent the night and the morning fucking, and they’re partners besides. It’s common courtesy, either way. But the look on Harry’s face alters again, growing flat and distant. 

“Something wrong with it?” Draco asks when Harry gazes down at his plate: bacon and two servings of sausage, two hard-boiled eggs and dry wheat toast with a cup of beans on the side, accompanied by orange juice and coffee. It’s not what he would pick —he much prefers his sweet porridge and full omelette; Malfoys have the metabolisms of jumpy Kneazles — but he knows Harry has an annoying thing about pairing high protein with carbohydrates and fats these days. He gives a wicked grin when Harry’s eyes flash up to his. “I ordered you the extra egg and sausage because you worked bloody hard last night. Eat.”

Like an Inferius, Harry reaches for the salt and pepper and seasons his hardboiled eggs, staring at Draco all the while. “Yeah,” Harry says under his breath. “Thanks.”

They eat in silence for a few minutes. Draco darts glances at Harry between bites, unsettled for some reason he can’t put his finger on. “The art class… Nudes, I suppose?”

Harry nods with a jerk of his chin, methodically eating his second slice of toast, beans piled on top. Abruptly, he says, “I think we should split up instead, actually.”

“What?” Draco’s confusion brings a smile to his face. “We’re on our honeymoon, _dear_ ,” he reminds him. 

“People can do separate things on their honeymoons, according to their interests,” Harry says, spearing another forkful into his mouth. He chews it slowly.

“Not— Not usually on the second day,” Draco says, though he isn’t really sure that’s true. It doesn’t sound true. Isn’t the honeymoon for shagging like bunnies and doing stupid things while glued to each other?

“I don’t like art,” Harry tells him, a bit louder, as the server comes over to replenish their coffees. The smile on his face is disconcerting. “And I know you’re not really one for hiking, so why don’t we just take this day — the morning, really — to explore on our own and we can meet after lunch at the hot springs?”

The hot springs are the second site for a contact-request drop that they know of — not that they’re supposed to, as they haven’t received the approval from the first yet. The server leaves and Draco leans forward again, his own smile pasted on as he hisses, “Harry, what the bloody fuck?”

“Nothing,” Harry says stonily. He finishes his hardboiled egg, chasing it with a sip of coffee, and wipes his mouth with a napkin. He eyes are on his plate, and vaguely resentful when they look back up at Draco.

Draco wants to argue, but his voice suddenly won't work. He doesn’t realise his hand has landed on top of Harry’s until Harry shakes off his touch and resumes eating.

“I told you,” Harry mutters, tone flat. Draco’s stomach sinks. “I’m no good at dating.”

“No,” Draco returns icily after a moment, contemplating him. His skin crawls with a rage he can't allow himself to express. “You certainly aren’t. In fact, it’s a wonder we ever got married.”


	2. Chapter 2

Draco wipes the excess charcoal off his fingers and surveys his sketch. It’s not as good as the ones his mother used to charm into breathing and blinking and even smiling for him, but it’s not bad. “Well?”

Nikolas, the dark haired man Alice had pointed out the previous day -- her assessment of him stunningly correct -- nods with a condescending smile. He’s incredibly patronising and entitled; twice now he’s complained about the lack of light in the corner of the room he’d chosen to set up his easel, as though someone had forced him to stand there. But the light use of Legilimency on him has revealed that he has a deep appreciation for art, and music, and harbours a loyalty so strong that it rivals that of Draco’s line. He also has almost no talent — natural or magical — for Occlumency, Draco discovered early on in the class. He probably gets headaches all the time from the sheer static of thoughts he receives from those around him. It could be one of the reasons he’s such a shit.

Despite that, he’s no longer any kind of suspect, just an arsehole who keeps glancing down at Draco’s cock in a way that makes Draco wonder if he thought orgies were included with the price of the stay here.

“It’s not bad for a beginner,” Nikolas grunts. His own piece has the poser’s penis obviously hard and nearly down to his knee, and Draco struggles for a moment not to laugh. “Need imagination, with art,” Nikolas continues. He leans in a bit closer. “Imagination is good in lots of things.”

Draco wants to ask if that’s why the feet of the model in his drawing look like fish, but simply nods and shifts away. “I could use more of that. I’m going to take a look around. See what everyone else came up with.”

The class has afforded him hourly breaks to check out the rest of the room while they switch out models. He spent the first engaged in a surprisingly interesting discussion with Alice about the differences between drawing and photography as art until her husband had begun interjecting loudly, ignoring her irritation at being talked over. He spent the second looking for the person who really interested him: the red-headed woman from the pool. He’d been surprised on a routine scan to discover that she _did_ have shields in place, though it’s entirely possible she could just be a sneaky Muggle who’s learned how to separate her mind safely. He heads directly over to her and scrutinises her drawing for a moment. It’s very well done, far better than his own. Her belly and breasts are covered in a fine, dark powder from the charcoal. 

She half turns, raising one ginger eyebrow at him. Her eyes are assessing, sharp. Her gaze rakes over him, up and down, in a way that might feel objectifying if he got any sense she was interested in him. Rather, it feels like she’s making up her mind about something. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry.” Draco smiles sheepishly and nods to her easel. “That’s very well done. I was wondering how you got his nose to look like that; it kept coming out too broad, in mine. I’m Daniel, by the way.”

“Right.” Her face relaxes, though she doesn’t offer him her hand. “I saw you here yesterday, you and your friend.”

“Husband,” Draco corrects. Her shoulders come down the last fraction of an inch.

“I’m Liz,” she says. She gestures to her drawing with a smile. “It’s really about the shading, because his nose _is_ wide, so—”

Draco allows the tendrils of his mind to waft over her shields as he smiles and listens to her with half an ear. When people are engaging in a pleasant, enjoyable activity, they often let their Occlumens drop, and he’s unsurprised when that happens now, just enough for a quick scan. He sees several flashes of the resort: nude people wandering, the relief of the cool pool on her sweaty skin, a sensation of loneliness and worry she feels as she swims laps. There’s even an image of himself and Harry as they arrived. He probes a bit deeper, looking for a memory with shadows around it, and finds what seems to be a normal day for her — stopping at a local grocer, feeding her cat. She holds a wand to refill its water dish and flinches when the front door slams and a voice bellows out her name.

He gently slides away from her thoughts and clicks his tongue to pick up the thread of conversation. “So you think it’s perhaps the _depth_ of shading I’m doing wrong?” he asks. “I tend to think of it as all one shade, really.”

“I could take a look?” she offers. Something in her voice has gone wary, but her smile is tentative and continues to be friendly.

“Oh, no, I really shouldn’t have bothered you. I know this class isn’t really an instructive thing, and even if it were — you’re not the teacher.”

“It’s no bother,” she says, almost eagerly. She's bored, he thinks, and lonely. And he’s… safe.

He leads her over to his canvas and idly watches as she examines it. She reaches up, her bare fingers stained with the remnants of charcoal, and points out the areas of the chin, the cheekbones, the nose that he could have darkened for better effect. She compliments the line of the poser’s spine and Draco’s use of movement, which startles Draco for a moment until he looks again and realises there’s no way he could have accidentally animated the drawing. 

“Would you be interested in joining me for lunch?” he asks when she’s done, smiling at her in the same charming way that so appealed to Alice before, flattering and harmless. 

Her skin, as pale as Draco’s but for gold undertones and light freckles over her shoulders and torso, pinks up a bit. She seems tempted. “I— I might have somewhere to be,” she says finally. 

“Alright.” He gives in easily. There's a skittish quality to her, her guards going up again. “Well, if you change your mind. My husband has decided to go _hiking_ today.” Draco sniffs a bit and rolls his eyes. “The second day of our honeymoon, too.”

Liz gurgles a small, surprised laugh. “And you picked _here_? Why on earth?”

Draco shrugs and signs the painting with his pseudonym. He begins packing up his station, putting away the charcoals and pencils, dusting off the stand. “He keeps telling people it was my idea. If you get a real look at him, you may think he’s telling the truth, but — mostly, it was a bit of a bet between us.”

“A bet?” He walks Liz back to her station and makes up a story about how his and Harry's courtship was riddled with wagers and challenges, and she laughs again. On their way out, she snags a gauzy white shift from the rung on the door and tugs it over her head. 

“I don’t feel entirely comfortable walking around naked yet,” she confides. “It’s one thing at the pool, but—”

“I understand,” he says dryly, indicating his own boxers, left on when he’d gone to strip down for the day. “Harry’s gone gleefully starkers, but then, he doesn’t have a modest bone in his body.”

“Apparently you get used to it.” Liz stops at one of the courtesy phones and makes a call. She goes to hang up after several rings but stops, falling quiet. Her face tightens and Draco can barely make out a voice on the other end of the line. 

“Yes. Art class, like you said. I was going to get lunch and— wanted to invite you—” She casts Draco an apologetic look and shakes her head. “Okay, I’ll be up in a moment. Yes, straightaway.”

When she hangs up, Draco doesn’t pretend not to look concerned, though perhaps he should. But fear is coming off her in waves, and he’s hit with a sudden flash of his mother the summer before sixth year, cornered by Rowle, her face snarling and vicious but flickering with great terror. His father was still in Azkaban, then, and Draco had felt rather dispassionate when he’d stepped in and hexed Rowle into unconsciousness from behind. The Dark Lord had complimented him on it, when giving him the Mark, later that week.

“Are you all right? Would you like me to accompany you?”

She nibbles on the corner of her lip. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine. He’s had a lot of business to attend to, so he’s a bit stressed.” She takes a look at his face and suddenly laughs. “Really, it’s not what you’re thinking. I appreciate it, though.”

Draco nods and gives her his room number. “If you change your mind,” he says once more.

“It won’t be necessary,” she says, and finally offers her hand. He takes it in both of his and gives her a hard look which she meets with one of her own. Her fear has receded, gentled, and he thinks it may have been due to the mention of her husband. Whatever she’s afraid of, Draco isn’t sure it’s him, directly.

He watches her go thoughtfully, then glances at the clock. He’d Summon Harry with his pendant, but it seems rather pointless considering the way Harry had departed just after breakfast, as though he couldn’t get away from Draco fast enough.

After Harry’s confession about that mark on his chest the previous night, given his reaction at his realisation that Draco perhaps knew him better than he thought, Draco had assumed that it was a _good_ thing. That Harry _liked_ it. A spike of painful mortification slips through him over having ordered Harry’s standard breakfast this morning — over his supposition that he’d be allowed to do things like that after what they had done together. 

Draco shakes his head. He's managed to compartmentalise it until now, left to his own devices, and doesn’t want to change that any time soon. He orders a quick meal and sits down to observe while he eats. He has a view of the pool, and studies it carefully while he eats, detecting the faint shimmer of Disillusionment that surrounds the towel rack. The spell only works on non-muggles, apparently, but even their appearances seem to ripple as they fetch things to dry themselves, like when the sun sends down a particularly brutal wave of heat. 

And then he sees Harry, naked and far more tan than he’d been a few hours prior. His body takes on the muted cast of his Glamoured persona as he steps closer to the towel rack. Draco sits up straighter, his brows knitting. Harry looks blurry and indistinct, and he fumbles with something in a slot next to the towels, then pulls out a luminescent pink card, which disappears immediately. Harry touches his pendant, and the one resting against Draco’s breastbone flares hot.

Draco narrows his eyes, wipes his mouth on a napkin, and heads out to the summons.

***

“If you think we’re fucking again tonight, you have another think coming,” Draco says after Harry sweeps him into an elaborate kiss. He’s lucky Draco didn't bite his lip off.

“I missed you too!” Harry says heartily. He slings an arm around Draco’s waist, pulling him tight against his sun-warmed skin. “Let’s go for a walk.”

They walk in silence until the shroud of trees — and blessed shade — gives them cover. Harry’s affable mask falls away and Draco can't understand why it ever manages to fool anyone, though of course it does, over and over. 

“We have the second meet. Tonight at the hot springs,” Harry says shortly, rubbing his fingers as if to display the Vanished card. “During which we need to furnish proof of sufficient Galleons in our bank account to make it to the third meet. Which is an auction, apparently. The price could go much higher.”

“What’s sufficient?” Draco asks.

“Two million.”

Draco gapes. He has it, of course, and probably Harry as well, though he’s not sure how far the Potter wealth extends anymore. But with the influx of his Black inheritance, there’s no way he could be hurting for gold. It’s just—

“Do we have access to a wizarding account?”

Harry nods. “We have full cover, remember? Muggle, wizard. I don’t think Kingsley anticipated the amount, though; I think it’s fairly basic, in case someone wants to check up on our backgrounds.”

Draco purses his lip. “I could deposit—”

“Do you have it? Liquid? Because I have about half that I can transfer immediately, if Kingsley can’t. But a lot of my assets are tied up.”

“Yes. I could even supply it all, if you need.” Still appalled by the amount, Draco shakes his head, horror knotting in his stomach. He can’t even bring himself to calculate what that is in pounds. Whatever is being auctioned must be far worse than they’ve been suspecting.

And his suspicions have been pretty terrible.

He heads over to a tree stump and sits down as Harry fiddles with his pendant for a few moments, then looks up and says, “They’ll have a rough estimate on how much they can supply in a few hours. We can check the file before dinner.”

“Fine,” Draco says tiredly, putting a hand to his forehead. The humidity is so thick he might as well be breathing water. 

“It’s good of you to offer,” Harry says after a second. 

“Whatever is happening is bad, Potter,” Draco says flatly.

“I know,” Harry says, voice going soft. “Budge over.”

“Get your own tree stump,” Draco says. “In fact, when you find one, shove it up your arse as you take a seat.”

Harry laughs, and when Draco looks up, he’s rubbing the back of his neck. He doesn’t seem bothered by the sheen of sweat covering him, or the rivulet of it that snakes its way down his chest and over his flat stomach. Draco watches it impassively, eyes sliding to Harry’s cock, which hangs heavily against his bollocks, soft but not unimpressive. As he’s looking, the goddamned thing twitches.

“So you’re not going to talk to me anymore?”

“I’ll talk to you about casework,” Draco says, standing. The cutting hostility he’s been nurturing since breakfast threatens to break free, but he holds onto it tightly. A cracked piece of crystal can hold water for a long time; a shattered one is difficult to repair.

“I was a bit of a shit,” Harry admits. “I’m sorry, I just—”

Draco smiles, putting every ounce of the Malfoy sneer behind it. He hasn’t used it like this in years, knows it makes him look like his father, but the unease flickering over Harry's face makes it well worth it. “I. Don’t. Care.” His upper lip curls in disgust. “I’ve been wanting to shag you since I was fifteen years old, but I thought we’d actually managed to become friends and I had the decency to try not to ruin it. More fool me. But I won’t be made a fool of, again — not even by the Chosen One. I thought I made that clear, last night.”

“Draco,” Harry says, stepping forward.

Shaking his head, Draco wishes for the cover of some clothing. Something, anything, to hide how blatantly used he feels. Which is ridiculous, isn’t it? Because he’d walked into it with open eyes. He desperately wants to know what changed, why it was okay for him to know Harry last night but not this morning, but he refuses to ask.

“Fuck off. It’s over and done, now.” Taking as deep a breath as he can in the miserable swelter, Draco fixes a level look on Harry’s face, which flickers with too many emotions to count. “What was the walk about? I assume you were trying to tell me something at breakfast?”

“Er, yeah,” Harry says, eyeing him as if questioning whether it’s worth the attempt to press. Draco’s grateful when whatever look is on his face convinces him not to. “After I talked to Hermione, I got another communication from Kingsley, via Robards. He wanted to make sure we investigated the magical elements of the property in the file. That potions case that’s being investigated might be pertinent. So I canvassed and found some potential hot-spots. The hot springs have a pretty strong magical energy, and the greenhouses, for some reason.”

“Certain types of nature magic facilitate growth,” Draco murmurs. He slants Harry a look. “We learned that in first year Herbology.”

“Right, but this is a Muggle resort,” Harry points out.

“Muggles tend to automatically gravitate toward strong magical signatures, you know that.” Draco runs a hand through his hair; it’s slick with sweat at the scalp. He grimaces, pondering what he must look like. “And it didn’t occur to you that the whole reason we’d been paired on this assignment — my _Mark_ — might come in handy when determining what sort of magical energy was around these sites?”

Harry has the grace to look embarrassed. His voice is quiet. “It did, but I thought—”

“Yes, I _know_ what you thought,” Draco mutters. He stands, glancing around carefully before twitching his wand out of its holster and casting a drying charm over his damp skin, then a cooling charm for good measure. He reholsters his wand and looks at Harry. “The bartender is due on duty in the dining room in thirty minutes. Why don’t you check him out — his room, perhaps, and then see what you can get to know about him, personally — while I recanvas the spots you hit and see if this,” Draco says, with a distasteful jerk of his chin at his forearm, “can detect any Dark Magic.”

“We’re supposed to be honeymooning,” Harry says. “We can’t spend _all_ our time away from one another. We could do it together.”

“We already did,” Draco says, brushing past him. “It was obviously as bad an idea as I thought.”

“Wait a minute.” Harry grabs his arm, holding him in place for a moment. Their faces are incredibly close, and for a second Draco wonders if he’s going to have to hex Harry to get away. But after a prolonged moment, Harry drops his hand and steps back. “Did you find out anything?”

“Oh. Yes.” Draco relates the dropping of Nikolas from the suspect’s list, and what he knows about Liz. Afterward, he’s forced to awkwardly add, “I gave her our room number, just in case she needed—”

Harry nods, giving Draco that same, contained look from this morning while they ate. “It was the right thing to do,” Harry says finally. “You don’t think she’s involved?”

“No. Not directly, at least. But it’s too coincidental that she’s a witch on top of everything else that’s happening,” Draco says.

“They do exist outside of Diagon alley,” Harry says mildly.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Not my point, and you know it. What time is the meet?”

“Nine.”

“Fine,” Draco says, shifting on his bare feet. The forest floor is covered in small leaves and twigs and stones, and he’s not best comfortable, even with the shade. “Let’s meet in the room around six and go over what we have before dinner.”

Harry’s eyes flick up to his. He looks frustrated at Draco’s flat, professional tone. “Draco—”

“It’s Daniel,” Draco says. “Best do to remember; we are married, after all. You complete wanker,” he spits. He takes Harry’s stunned silence as an opportunity to stalk away.

***

“Well?” Harry asks when Draco comes into the room, hours later. He doesn’t even look up from the scroll he’s perusing.

“Magical energy, yes,” Draco says, tiredly Summoning a pair of joggers and slipping them on. The air conditioning feels heavenly. “In both places. Also a copse of trees about thirty metres from the hot springs, just outside the property line.” He falls silent and sits, thinking.

“What is it?” Harry raises an eyebrow and lifts his head, alert to Draco’s mood somehow, though he hasn’t said anything to communicate his unease.

Draco shrugs. “The copse made the Mark… react. But where the greenhouse felt a potent place for Dark Magic and the hot springs had a more… healing quality, I couldn’t quite place the kind emanating from there. It was so subtle I barely noticed it until I had been standing there for a few moments. Also, I saw Tom at the greenhouse.”

Harry snorts. “Just checking out the exotic flowers?”

“Apparently,” Draco says, shooting him a quick smile that falls off his face as soon as he feels it. “His presence likely affected the intensity of the reaction, but I felt it long before I noticed him, even before I entered. A surge of energy, calling out to the—” He swallows, rubbing his arm. The memory of the sensation is almost overwhelming.

Setting aside his file, Harry leans forward, face concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, fine.” But for the pounding headache and the residual terror that threatens to rise when he feels that particular, squirming burn on the skin inside his forearm.

Harry sighs with a reluctant nod. “And the hot springs?”

“The hots springs were…” Draco searches for the right way to say it. Harry’s powerful, but a lifetime of family training has gone into Draco’s ability to recognise magic, beyond the Mark. At last he says, “I wish I’d gone there second.”

It feels too vague and he’s about to elaborate when Harry says, “So, soothing? Like, good magic?”

“All magic can begins as good,” Draco says, covering his surprise at the ease with which Harry understood what he was trying to say. “But yes. It's probably due to the way the well springs up from the earth. Or perhaps the pools just haven’t been tainted with Dark Magic, yet. If I were to lay odds on one of them being _used_ for nefarious purposes, it’d be the greenhouse, but the hot springs felt more… compelling. Which can be a danger in and of itself.”

“Well, the meeting tonight is _at_ the hot springs,” Harry reminds him, as though Draco could forget.

“Yes. What about you?”

“The bartender vanished. His quarters were empty,” Harry says. “I checked with the on-staff undercovers and found that the job was temporary, not meant to last through the summer. Today was to be his last day, but he didn’t show up for his shift.”

“Finished his job or got nervous?” Draco asks.

“Either. Or said the wrong thing to the wrong person. Doesn’t matter, now,” Harry says neutrally. “He didn’t wipe his room of either fingerprints _or_ a magical signature, so we’ll find him soon enough. And I heard back from Kingsley — the bank account has been furnished.”

Draco takes a moment to compose his face. “Already?”

Harry nods cynically. “After all those budget meetings I’ve been forced to attend, I have to admit I’m wondering how they did it on such short notice. It’s there, too; not just a Glamoured transfer — in case we’re fortunate enough, Kingsley said, to be able to procure the item safely before making arrests.”

“How indeed,” Draco murmurs. He studies his knees for a moment. He tends to look skinnier than he actually is when he’s wearing clothing, and his loose sweats drape ridiculously over the jut of his kneecap, making him feel like a child. Hell, making him feel the way _Harry_ looked as a child. He bunches the extra material under his thighs for something to do other than what it seems Harry’s waiting for. “Anything else?”

Harry makes a tiny, maddened noise. “Based on your description of her and the street her house was on in that glimpse you got of her memory, the DMLE database was able to find the identity of the woman, Liz.” He pulls out another sheaf of papers. “Elizabeth Elliot, twenty-seven. Apparently, she was a hat-stall. Mm. Took over an hour and four tries for her to be placed in Ravenclaw over Gryffindor—”

“Smart girl, that,” Draco grunts. Harry shoots him a narrow look and continues.

“—Married five years ago to Roger Elliot, thirty-one, Gryffindor. She has a fairly spotless record, both legally and financially. Her husband, however, has a track record of shoddy investments and has been arrested on five different occasions: twice for being drunk and disorderly, once for selling homemade potions without a license, and twice for taking part in a booking ring.”

“Illegal potions?” Draco asks, interest caught.

Harry gives a tiny, bewildered shake of his head. “No. Standard bruise-healing salves and the equivalent to Pepper-Up. I guess they have a garden with some of the ingredients, and he has a deft hand. He didn’t know he was supposed to get a license was his excuse.”

“And the shoddy investments?”

“Basic stuff there as well. A new broom seat he’d been told would revolutionise the flying industry; a line of women’s fashionwear that had,” Harry checks the scroll with a small smile, “disappearing pockets. I guess that’s a thing that ruins the lines of robes.”

Draco catches himself before he nods; it’d do no good to relate every conversation he’s ever had with Pansy about the disgrace that is women’s fashion. Between her, his mother, and his own damned snobbish tendencies, it’s probably a topic the less discussed, the better. “So the husband is most likely involved,” he says pointlessly.

“I suppose. Also heard something else about the parchment we copied from Tom the Businessman,” Harry says.

“You’ve been occupied.”

“Wasn’t exactly the honeymoon I’d envisioned,” Harry returns dryly.

Draco grinds his teeth together. “Fortunate for you that all of it’s been fake, then.”

“Not all of it,” Harry says.

Draco's teeth are going crack and turn to dust soon if Harry keeps this up. He deliberately loosens his jaw and sets a bored gaze on Harry. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself. What did the parchment say?”

Harry’s bland expression shifts into a glower before he can mask it and Draco feels a smug twinge of satisfaction at the way Harry’s eyes glitter behind his glasses, his fingers tightening on the file in his hands. “It’s only a partial spell and the handwriting shows a match, although it’s been charmed with heavy confidentiality. It should be released to us soon. And there's another piece to the spell; we should assume that it’s already been procured.”

“Seems an even wager.” Draco rises, letting his limbs go tight in a satisfying stretch. Although he might be swimming in his sweats, he’s confident that the picture he makes — the muscles in his stomach clenching, the slender line of his bicep bunching up, his hipbones standing out — displays him to an advantage. He’s not sure what the point he’s making is, but suspects he’s definitely making one.

That suspicion is confirmed when he lowers his arms from above his head and drops them to his side, giving Harry a side-long glance. Harry's mouth hangs open slightly and his prick is swollen, outlined against his thigh, under the fabric of his pants. 

“Malfoy,” he says. It’s an obvious warning and Draco almost _hopes_ he does something — his wand hand has been itching to hex the bastard all fucking day.

“I’m taking a shower,” Draco says dismissively. “I’ll be out in time for you to get ready for dinner.”

“We could share,” Harry says, standing. He tries for a smile but it comes out more a grimace. 

Draco shakes his head, letting go a light scoff. “There’s more than enough hot water for each of—”

“Goddamn it, Malfoy!” Harry snaps. As though _he_ has a reason to be angry. As though _he_ was the one who was lied to. As though _Draco_ has humiliated _him_.

“What.” Draco folds his arms over his bare chest and stares at him.

“I—” Harry takes a deep breath. “Stop— punishing me. Some things can’t be helped. I was kind of a dick, okay? I’ll apologise. I apologise. But— Come on. We’re friends.”

Draco swallows hard, feeling suddenly shaky as all of his spiteful humour leaves on a rush. His throat is strangely tight as he acknowledges the truth of things. “We’re not,” he says. “Learning to work well together and... wanting each other doesn't make us friends.”

Harry takes a halting step forward. Stops. A flush creeps up his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs silently, and his hands fist at his sides.

“I wanted to be,” Draco continues, and fuck if he can barely force the words out, barely force himself to keep his eyes steady on Harry’s. This whole thing was a mistake of epic proportions, just the kind he’s always made. His voice sounds odd to his own ears. “I thought we were. Even knowing last night might ruin it. But no. I’ve seen how you treat your friends, Potter.” A faint smile steal over his face; it hurts, for some reason. “Excuse me.”

He thinks he hears his name uttered on his way to the loo, but doesn’t stop. He locks the door behind him.

***

Draco picks at his meal. It’s superb — charred swordfish with tangy vegetables and perfectly cooked chips — but he can’t seem to taste it. Harry is no better, dragging his fork around his plate in a desultory fashion, taking a bite every three minutes or so as if he can’t figure out what else to do.

 _Join the club,_ Draco thinks bitterly. He stares out the window they’re seated beside. The sky is clear enough that he can make out the pinpricks of starlight.

“This is stupid,” Harry mutters at length. They’re the first words that have been exchanged between them since Draco walked away.

Draco bristles. “Which part.”

“The part where we’re supposed to be madly in love and on our honeymoon, you sullen prick,” Harry says under his breath. His face softens, sweetens, and he reaches across the table to take Draco’s hand. “The part where we could be discussing the case rather than—”

Just barely, Draco refrains from jerking away. He forces his own face to soften and chuckles lightly, curling his fingers around Harry’s palm. He can do this. This is the part he’s good at. He adjusts his posture so it doesn’t resemble that of a petulant teenager, and leans forward. “I found a good spot to watch from,” he murmurs.

“Just make sure you Disillusion yourself well before we get there. If it’s like the pool drop, they’ll have spells in place that alert them when magic is performed,” Harry says. “So you’ll need to be careful.”

“Too bad you didn’t bring your Cloak. It might save me the trouble of having to do any pesky magic at all,” Draco says, striving to keep the sarcasm out of his tone.

“Well, that’s the other thing.” Harry smiles, smug. He strokes an easy, intimate pattern over Draco’s knuckles with his thumb. “I did. I thought it could act as an extra buffer, in case your Disillusionment fails. You’ll really need both, particularly on your feet. Your shoes might show when you walk.”

Slightly taken aback, Draco processes this for a moment. “I— yes. Fine. I thought I should bring a phial to store the memory as well. I know it’s likely to be another dead drop, but in case anyone shows up — _anyone_ , another buyer, perhaps — it’d be better than that quill, which leaves out details.”

“Good thinking,” Harry says, taking a swallow of his wine. His eyes meet Draco’s over the rim of his glass, and Draco feels hard-pressed to look away, not even sure if he should, given their cover. But the moment grows too large, and he finally swings his eyes down. Unfortunately, they land on their joined hands, which is almost as bad. Harry’s fingers are shorter and slightly more blunt than Draco’s long, tapered ones, his palm a bit more square, his sun-kissed skin standing dark against Draco’s pale hand. For all their differences — or maybe because of them — he likes the look of it. Too much.

He casually pulls his hand away and leans back in his chair, keeping his expression light.

“Daniel,” Harry says after a moment, voice back at normal conversational volume.

Draco arches one brow. “Yes, love?”

Harry seems to struggle for a minute, opening his mouth several times and closing it before finally speaking.

“Hypothetical question: have you ever been given an…” Harry casts his eyes at the ceiling for a moment. He clears his throat. “Let’s pretend you’d been given an assignment that you didn’t particularly want to do. A— a _role_ to play, which required you to… isolate yourself.”

Everything in Draco stills.

“And it wasn’t as though you could just refuse it,” Harry continues. “It was part of your circumstance. But— It was dangerous.”

“Yes?” Rage builds, hot, behind Draco’s breastbone. Beyond the terse apology Harry'd given about the incident in the bathroom after Auror training had gotten intense one night, they’ve never spoken of sixth year to each other. The war, the Dark Lord... So much of it has been mentioned in asides that never really addressed the horror of those two years. They should, he knows, but that Harry has decided to bring this up _now_ is unforgivable.

“Well, what would you do? To protect people?” Harry asks.

“What I had to,” Draco says, low. “As you very well know, and I cannot think of a worse, more inappropriate time to discuss these matters, my darling.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Jesus. That’s not what I— I wasn’t talking about—”

A hotel employee, thankfully dressed in a pair of loose-fitting boxers, interrupts them. He looks between them curiously. “Mister Matthews?”

Draco huffs a warm laugh. “Can you be more specific?”

“Oh.” The employee — Grant, his lanyard reads — smiles a little. “Harry Matthews.”

“That’s me.” 

“You received a certified letter,” Grant says, holding out an envelope.

“Mmm. Thank you,” Harry says. Grant gives a modified bow and walks off. Harry turns the thing over in his hands, studying it.

“Check for curses, at least,” Draco says.

“I did.”

Right. Draco rolls his eyes and holds out his hand. “Let me, as well.”

Harry passes it over without complaint; it’s standard training to have messages from unknown sources checked by more than one Auror.

Draco puts it in his lap and snicks the tip of his wand out of its holster, out of view of the other patrons. He scans it quickly for poisons and curses, but it seems like it’s just… a muggle certified letter. He opens it.

“Hey,” Harry objects half-heartedly. 

Brows drawing down, Draco reads it in confusion.

_Mr. Matthews,_

_My apologies for bothering you with business while you’re on holiday, but I received this email from marketing and legal that I felt you should be aware of. It read: Harry, Orders reduced, can’t replace until Xerox exempts signing._

_You’ll need to be very careful when reading the contracts—apparently, the company in charge is investigating matters. The item itself is due to be processed to discover new ways of utilisation. Item may be able to make extra copies with less effort._

_Will be busy with this for a bit, so just get back when you can; no rush. I shall try to take care of things on my end, to the best of my ability._

_Thanks, Jean._

He looks up. “Who’s Jean?”

Harry’s mouth tightens. “Hermione.” He’s left off the _you daft prick_ from the end of the sentence, which Draco appreciates a bit, because— of course. “What’s it say?”

“It’s odd,” Draco says, scanning it again. “She obviously needed to let you know that the— company you’re doing research for is also working to find out other ways to utilise the object you’re hoping to process soon, rather than perhaps destroy it, as we’d been led to believe.”

If anything, Harry’s face seems to grow more immobile. He gives a short nod and takes the letter Draco passes over, his mind still on the strange sentence in the middle. “What’s Xerox?”

Harry blinks. “A—a muggle company. Electronics, I think.” He peruses the letter and freezes.

Draco sees it with half an eye, still pondering what kind of connection electronics might have to their case when it comes to him, the arrangement of the letters in that sentence. His heart settles, painfully, like a stone.

“Horcruxes,” Draco blurts. It comes out barely a whisper — honestly, who would say something like that out loud? — but he feels as though he’s shouted it. He looks up at Harry, whose eyes are glued, unmoving, to the paper in his suddenly shaking hands. Draco leans in. “Horcruxes, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t respond, and Draco’s almost glad for his silence, for the chance to absorb this on his own for a moment. They’re some of the Darkest Arts he’s ever heard of, and then only twice in his life: once from a portrait that his mother burned after Draco came to her with questions, and once more, right before the Dark Lord was vanquished with his wand. He looks at Harry again.

“Is this about the— Is here a possibility that _he’ll_ come back?” he asks hoarsely. “Horcruxes are—”

Draco’s words die on his lips as Harry finally looks up. His face is ashen, his eyes stark with shock. Draco stretches out a hand to him, his heart stuttering with fear.

And all of the windows in the dining room explode.

There's one moment of complete stillness, and then chaos erupts. Someone is shouting; people are crying out in fear and perhaps pain. The tinkling-crunch of broken glass can be heard as people run out of the dining room. Draco spares a blank moment to be grateful that they require shoes in the space during dinner, and then he’s knocking the table aside to drag Harry down past the window ledge, away from curse-fire.

Harry goes with him woodenly, as if his muscles are locked up. 

“An assassin,” Draco pants, slipping his wand free. His eyes sting terribly and he feels woozy. He’s never liked the sight of blood, but for some reason, seeing the tiny slices on Harry’s cheekbone, the threads spilling down to his jaw, makes Draco feel like passing out.

He takes a deep breath and looks around. Everyone else has wisely evacuated and he uses the opportunity to cast the lights off. He turns in his crouch and peeks up over the windowsill. Even knowing that he’s unlikely to see anyone, he mentally files through his repertoire of spells.

“Harry, fuck,” Draco snarls. “Can you give me a goddamned hand?”

Harry jerks slightly. He blinks and meets Draco's eyes; there's window glass in his hair. “It’s not an assassin,” he says, dully at first and then firmer. His face looks cut from stone in the dark light of the moon and stars seeping in. “It’s not an assassin.”

Draco hesitates, peeking up again. The world seems to spin a bit from that angle, and he dashes the stinging water from his eyes with the heel of his hand. “What do you mean? Someone fired some sort of killing curse at you,” he says.

“It was me,” Harry says simply, voice gone hard.

Draco cranes his neck. Harry's sitting still on the floor with the disastrously ruined dining room framing him from behind. “You, no, someone—”

Harry places a hand on his arm. It burns like Draco’s eye does, like his thighs are starting to, in his position. “It was me. I did it,” Harry says. “I— _Fuck,_ Draco, your face.”

Draco shakes his head. It feels like there’s an insect buzzing around his ear. Harry grips him from behind the neck and Draco stumbles into him, his knees buckling because of their awkward angle. Harry touches his forehead, his eyebrow. His hand comes back saturated with something dark and glistening, and it’s the last thing Draco sees before everything goes black.

***

“Hey, you’re awake.”

Draco swallows, struggling up against the pillows. He turns to see a good-looking young man wearing low-slung briefs and a lanyard, sitting in the arm chair across from their hotel bed. 

“I— my husband?” His head aches, and his skin burns across his temple and forehead, but when he reaches up, he feels only slightly puffy, tender flesh. “Where’s—”

“Your partner had to go make the drop,” the young man explains. He nods at something to Draco’s left. “Take that. Blood replenishing potion, should make you feel a bit better. You were— You lost a lot, I guess.”

Draco reaches over and uncaps the vial. After a cursory pass with his wand, he downs the contents and, moments later, begins to feel a bit steadier. “Auror?”

“Yeah. Call me Dave.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“Near thirty minutes, now,” Dave says. 

Draco closes his eyes briefly. He can’t even Apparate there, for the noise it’ll make. “Please tell me he didn’t go alone.”

“No, we had someone else tag him for surveillance,” Dave says. He sits back. “She’ll warn me if something happens.”

“Right.” Draco pauses. “How long have you been on this assignment?”

“A while. Right out of training, actually. I think it’s something different, but—”

“Different?”

“Than what you’re doing,” Dave clarifies. “We were told to cooperate with you and give you whatever you need, but we’ve actually been in place for… three months, I guess?” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Dark artefacts have been smuggled through here for a while now. And there’s a host of illegal potions ingredients growing in a room under the greenhouse.”

Vaguely amused, Draco asks, “And you’re allowed to tell me all of this?”

“Like I said, you guys take precedent,” Dave says. “I was told you knew all this anyway.”

They hadn’t known that the potions room was under the greenhouse, Draco thinks. It may not be relevant to their case, but it explains the heavy undulations of dark magic that emanate from it.

“Are _you_ allowed to tell _me_ anything?” Dave asks after a moment. “Who you guys are? What you’re looking for?”

Draco shakes his head; it throbs at the movement. “Are there any pain potions available?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Dave fumbles in a small bag resting on the floor at his feet for a moment before tossing him a tiny bottle that Draco catches deftly. “That should help.”

Draco takes a small sip, aware that the blood replenishing potion might lose potency with too many additional compounds in his system. His headache has started to slowly ease off when a thought occurs to him that causes it to bloom fresh. He takes another sip.

“Was anyone else injured?”

“No, not really,” Dave tells him, sounding surprised. “One woman got nicked on the arm and an older man cut his hand and knee a bit when he stumbled on the way out. The hotel is chalking it up as a soundwave or something. A freak occurrence. They’re comping rooms for anyone who was dining at the time. The Ministry will have the muggle press come up with something that aligns with it.” He hesitates. “Your partner… He, ah, he said it was accidental magic on his part.”

Draco nods with difficulty. His voice is grim. “He said that to me, too.”

“Power like that is… uncommon, right? There are only a few wizards I can think of who—”

“It’s not that uncommon,” Draco says sharply. Dave shrinks back a bit under his glare.

“Right, no, I just meant—”

The door lock beeps softly, and Harry comes striding in, closely followed by the female desk-clerk. The relief Draco feels is almost tangible. So is the fury that follows closely on its heels.

“You’re awake,” Harry says, blinking stupidly.

“While I, as ever, appreciate your ability to state the obvious,” Draco says, “it might be more productive if you told me how it went.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Sheila. Dave. I’ll call you if we need anything.” Harry takes a moment to shake their hands. Draco notices that Dave’s eyes are a bit large and bright, and that he gazes at Harry with the beginnings of that same appalling hero-worship that makes it so difficult for Harry to keep a partner. 

“Yes, thank you,” Draco echoes as they’re on their way out. They both nod and Dave gives a jaunty wave before they’re gone, leaving him alone with Harry.

“So…” Draco draws out the word expectantly.

Harry flushes. He sits on the edge of the bed and kicks off his ridiculous trainers; he peels off his socks and strips out of his shirt. After having seen him naked for the last two days, it feels odd to watch him get undressed.

“I’m sorry,” he says gruffly. 

“For which part?” Draco wonders aloud. “Leaving me to be babysat while you storm off without a real partner to watch your back? Almost killing a roomful of Muggles because you couldn’t bring yourself to tell me what’s going on? Dragging me into your oh-so-exclusive club of scarheads?”

Harry laughs a little until he sees the look on Draco’s face, sees that Draco isn’t making a joke. His shoulders are tense. “All but the first,” he says. Then, “It might not scar.”

Well, that’s certainly a hopeful enough thing for someone to say when they’re the one who’s maimed you. He wonders if Harry said the same thing to himself after using _Sectumsempra_ on him, and the sheer, overwhelming bitterness in the thought takes Draco’s breath away. He swallows.

“It’s fine. What happened?”

There’s the barest moment of silence as Harry steps out of his trousers before he responds. “It was a dead drop, like we thought it’d be. I put in the verification of our bank funds and waited a few minutes before receiving a response. There’s to be a bidding war tomorrow night.”

Harry picks up the Ministry file and jots down the information. 

Draco takes a deep breath. “And the Horcruxes? Is that what we’re bidding on? Something that hosts a fragment of someone’s— someone’s _soul?_ ”

“No.” Harry’s voice is hollow. “I can’t be sure, but I think it’s… it’s the thing — stone, whatever — that’s necessary to make them. There could be hundreds of these objects, though I doubt it. And Hermione’s letter said something about… about copies. Extras, I think. Horcrux magic is— It's been only vaguely studied, but only by those people who’ve made them. Even Dumbledore—”

He breaks off and closes the file. 

“Even Dumbledore, what?” Draco asks.

“Wasn’t aware, fully, of how they were made. Or maybe he was.” Harry scrubs a hand through his hair. “Kingsley is ready to replace you if you want out. We could stage a fight in the morning.”

“Want out?” Draco repeats, astonished. “You think I’m not—”

“You got injured. It’s just an option.” One it looks very much like Harry wants him to take. 

“I’m fine,” Draco says. Harry’s edgy, unable to stop moving around the room. “Potter, I’m _fine._ ”

Finally Harry looks at him, really _looks_ , and then he is there, crossing the room in two strides, his mouth covering Draco’s insistently, tongue sliding in to stroke against his own. His hands tremble as they cup Draco’s jaw, lips searching, a desperate, hard press.

Draco’s hands fly up to encircle Harry’s wrists. He allows the kiss for a few more seconds than he should before pulling back. “No.”

Harry follows his mouth instinctively, but at another firm denial, gives a slow nod and drops his hands from Draco’s face. He takes a step back, inhaling deeply and looking away.

“You’re probably the best friend I have besides Ron and Hermione,” he says so quietly that the words float past Draco’s consciousness, unheeded as his lips continue to tingle for a second, before they hit him like a Bludger to the face. “That I made you feel like we weren’t friends is—”

Draco flounders, no clue how to respond. The audacity of the statement is appalling in itself, but the truth on Harry’s face is worse. “That’s. That’s utterly pathetic, Potter."

Harry gives a sharp, breathy laugh. “Isn’t it?” he asks sardonically, practically crumpling onto the tiny sofa against the wall. “I don’t… I don’t have drinks with anyone else from work, or grab chips with them. I don’t even have to duel these days; they don’t put me on the roster anymore because no one wants to duel with someone who has to go wandless. Except for you. I sign up when I know you’ll be training. Ron and Hermione know my secrets, but… if I could make it so they didn’t, I might.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

Harry glances at him. “No, I wouldn’t,” he admits. “I need— I need someone to know. And they were with me when it all happened,” he says haltingly. “Before I died in the forest.”

“Don’t be dramatic, you didn’t _die,_ ” Draco scoffs automatically. But Potter's expression is bleak, and a chill races through Draco. Weakly, he says it again, as if repeating it will right the world on its axis. “You didn’t die.”

“What if you were given a role to play?” Harry asks like he had at dinner. “Something dangerous. What if you walked into a situation as one thing and came out branded, as something else?”

Draco looks down at his forearm, at the sharply defined sweep of stark black ink against his skin, then back up at Harry, at the thumbprint-sized tattoo on his chest.

“What would you do, Malfoy?” Harry persists. “To protect the people you care about?”

“What I had to,” he says again, numbly. Harry nods, shoulders slumping with exhaustion and Draco swallows. “But if they were aware of the risk—”

Harry’s eyes search his. “People always say that before they know what it entails. Fuck, half the time I think Ron and Hermione even wish they didn’t know.”

Gathering a bit of much-needed control, Draco snorts. “Sometimes you have to be privy to information you don’t want.”

“Right, well,” Harry says vaguely. “You protect the people you love.”

“You _trust_ the people you love,” Draco shoots back. “Enough that they could stab you in the back with the knife you’ve just gifted them, enough to know they won’t draw the blade of it across their own wrist. That’s what love _is,_ Potter. I’m not suggesting you spread it around — fuck, you’d be stupid if you did — but saying you wish you didn’t have to trust those friends of yours is just as stupid as working a job you hate simply because you feel it’s your duty.”

Draco’s ears burst with sudden heat at having said the last. It’s not _done_ to imply that The Chosen One may be unhappy in his Chosen One Career of protecting the whole goddamned world, and Draco's appalled at the slip. 

But Harry just ignores it and shrugs, picking distractedly at the hem of his pants. His mind seems to be wandering, so Draco reels it back, adopting a business-like tone. “And the Horcruxes? You mentioned that the Dark Lord had some, back at the— back then.”

“It’s a longer story,” Harry mumbles. “I won’t talk about that.”

“I’m not asking for your _stories,_ , nor for your stupid bloody secrets, you twit,” Draco says sharply. “I mean about the case. Are they relevant?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. Voldemort is gone, I’m sure of that much. Kingsley seemed unaware of what was being researched in the Department of Mysteries. He’s going to start an internal investigation.”

“He’s the _Minister_ ,” Draco says. 

“And the D.o.M has always been given too much leeway, you know that,” Harry says, jostling his glasses to crooked as he scrubs a hand over his face. “Studying the mysteries of magic…”

Which is ridiculous, of course, because they never find out much, not really. A bunch of Ravenclaws sitting in a tower discussing theory, releasing peer-reviewed papers every two or three years about the physics of Apparition or the lure of gold for Nifflers. Never anything concrete, never anything useful.

“So then, what?” he says, and hates his voice for coming out weak and tired. The blood replenishing potion has helped that gnawing, bone-deep shakiness, but he feels as though he could sleep for days. “What are we doing tomorrow?”

“Basic recon,” Harry says. “We’re supposed to go to the auction and not make waves in the meantime. The other Aurors on-site will monitor in case something goes wrong, and we’re to procure the—” He grimaces here, sucking in a breath, then moving on, “ _object_ before making arrests.”

“Recon?” Draco repeats. “We’re not to do any more investigative work?”

“Not if it might scare off the people running the bid,” Harry says, tipping his head. His mouth quirks up to the side in a humourless smile; he bows his head and looks down at his hands. “We might be able to take that yoga class, after all.”

Draco looks at him. That usual crackle of energy that surrounds him — that burning sense of power and possibility — seems muted, somehow. Guilt over Draco’s face, perhaps, or the minor injuries he inflicted on the Muggles. Worry about the following night, or horror about what’s being bought and sold. It’s been blanketed with a dampening layer of ash, and Draco feels lost for a moment as he stares at the top of Harry’s head. 

“Come to bed,” he says.

Harry’s head comes up, mouth dropping open a fraction.

Draco shakes his head, nerves ruffling. “Not like— to _sleep,_ Potter. You need to sleep. Merlin’s tits, I’m amazed they even let you stay after that little debacle. Accidental magic takes a lot of energy out of you.”

Harry nods. “I am a little tired,” he says quietly, as though admitting a weakness. He sighs. “I need to take a shower.”

“I thought you were fine with your charms,” Draco says.

“Bloody hell, Draco,” Harry says, but the curl of his mouth seems more genuine. “Just because I don’t shower fifteen times a day to wash off sweat or have a wank doesn’t mean I don’t shower at _all_. Stop pretending you don’t like the way I smell.”

Draco does. Quite a lot, in fact, but he’s still smarting over what Harry did and doesn’t want to admit it. Except… Harry’s face is so hopeful that Draco will share in the joke, in the flirt, so hopeful that they can pretend everything is _fine,_ Draco doesn’t have the heart to say any of the crushing things that come to mind.

“Your hygiene has gotten better since school, I’ll grant you,” he says finally, not willing to capitulate any further.

But Harry’s smile becomes a full-fledged grin at it, just a second’s worth. “Go on, then,” he says. “I can tell you’re still exhausted. I’ll try not to wake you when I get in.”

***

It’s not panic or fear Draco feels at first. Just simple bewilderment as to why it’s so hard to draw a breath, why his throat and ribs ache. Then his eyes flutter open and his legs are flailing for purchase against the mattress as he reaches up to untangle the thing slowly choking the life out of him. Even that's more instinctive than fearful. But the thing around him is thick and sinuously smooth, _like Nagini’s scales,_ Draco thinks, and _that’s_ when the panic hits him, hard and fast, and he gasps out a wheezing, “ _Potter!_ ” while scrambling under his pillow for his wand.

The smooth wood under his fingertips is reassuring, even as he struggles for purchase. He finally grips it and grits out a releasing spell. The thing loosens a bit but doesn’t let go, though it’s enough that Draco can suck some much-needed air into his lungs. His thoughts are scrambled, but he glances over to see Harry in perfect repose, his face is wet with tears. There's a fine gold mist permeating from him, sliding toward Draco in undulant waves, and Draco casts his wand with as much force as he can muster, shoving Harry’s magic back into his mind.

Harry sits up just as Draco slumps, gulping in huge lungfuls of air. Harry seems to know what’s happened immediately; he reaches for Draco, eyes wide and horrified, and then stops himself and wraps his arms around his own torso. “Oh my god. Draco,” he breathes.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Draco mutters on a loop, holding one hand up while the other massages his throat. Harry backs away as though to climb out of bed, but Draco grabs at him, stilling his escape. He narrows his eyes at Harry’s face, covered in the shadows of the hour and the ones of his own making. “ _I can take care of myself, Potter,_ ” he says severely. “But you really need to get that little habit under control. Let’s just go back to sleep.”

“You think I’m going to sleep after almost _murdering you?_ ” Harry asks, incredulous.

Draco swallows experimentally. His throat doesn’t even pain him anymore. “Well, I at least expect you to be quiet in bed so that _I_ can,” Draco tells him shortly. He lays back down, turning his pillow to the cool side before slipping his wand back under it and resting his head. He waits, trying not to tense, for what Harry will do.

Harry makes a small sound of complaint, and for a moment Draco thinks he’s going to shove out of bed anyway. But then the mattress dips and shifts again as Harry lays down rigidly. “I didn’t mean to—” he starts in a wretched voice, and Merlin save Draco from Gryffindors and their guilt complexes.

“I know. Stop. Let me sleep,” Draco mutters, tugging the sheet up a bit higher. 

“Draco, I would _never…_ ” Harry tries again. It comes out thick and wet sounding, and Draco’s stomach flips with something that feels like aggravation but somehow isn’t.

“I _know,_ Harry,” he says softly. 

The mattress trembles beside him. Draco ignores it for as long as the roots tightening around his heart will allow before rolling over to face Harry again. He’s on his side, back shaking. Small, catching breaths issue from his mouth. 

It’s such an obvious lie that even _Draco_ doesn’t believe it when he tells himself that he presses himself against Harry’s back because he’ll never get back to sleep otherwise. He crooks his knees into Harry’s bent ones and slides an arm over his shuddering ribcage. 

“Harry… Harry, stop.” It’s a new sort of panic washing through him at such an open display of Harry’s pain, something he keeps so closely guarded. Draco wonders if even his friends have seen him like this, body shaking, cracked, broken noises issuing from his lips. Draco wants it to end; the— the _sweetness_ of it unsettles him. The tenderness he feels rising in his chest is something he hasn’t permitted himself to feel before, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he asks. “What can I do?”

There’s another deep, ragged inhale, and then Harry’s arm slides over Draco’s. He twists, looks at Draco. His eyes are bright with moisture in the moonlight. He’s going to ask to leave, Draco can see. To be allowed out of the bed and away from him. 

So Draco kisses him before he can.

Harry’s body goes tense and tight. His mouth is unmoving and tastes like salt. But then it opens,softens. Draco slips his tongue in and though the sound Harry makes is small and even frightened, he returns the kiss. He licks at Draco’s tongue and presses their mouths tighter together. One hand comes up, tangles in Draco’s hair, clutching tight.

It’s uncomfortable, Harry’s shoulder pressing against his collarbone, but his mouth has warmed, become hot and greedy under Draco’s, frantic for something, _something_. Draco catches Harry’s upper lip between his teeth. He sucks it, and when Harry gives a desperate whine, Draco knows what to do, what Harry needs.

“Yes,” he breathes into Harry’s mouth, hands shoving Harry’s boxers down, baring the firm curve of his arse to Draco’s groin. The hand in his hair releases, reaching down and back to push Draco’s pants down too, then curling around Draco’s half-hard cock and pulling on it frantically until it swells and becomes painfully stiff. 

Their mouths draw away and meet, again and again and again. Draco didn’t know that a person could drown so fully in a kiss, all teeth and tongues and lips and breath. But he’s suddenly dizzy with wanting Harry, with knowing the taste of him, and can’t bring himself to stop chasing Harry’s mouth with his own whenever Harry pulls away to suck in another breath before diving back. 

_You won’t be able to fix yourself after this,_ a voice in his head tells him, and Draco knows it’s true.

He just no longer _cares._

Harry moans just as he does, their voices mingling like their breath, and Draco reaches to grip Harry’s cock; it’s already thick and leaking. Draco simply holds it in his fist, the pad of his thumb moving in a slow press over the crown, tracing the ridge and mapping the sensitive underside of the glans before he presses against the slit and spreads the silky bead of moisture around. Harry gasps, his own stroking hand faltering on Draco’s erection. What he’s doing to Draco’s cock feels good — delicious, _perfect_ — but it’s almost not as good as that gasp, unrestrained and needy: a surrender of _Harry’s_ , an offering, when Draco feels like so much of himself is falling away.

“Please,” Harry says, low and shaking. He pulls his lips away again, shiny and swollen. Draco wants them with a rush of possessiveness and so he takes them once more, his kiss hard and biting, before relinquishing Harry so he can roll over onto his stomach. 

Draco swallows hard, eyes on the line of Harry’s back, lean and muscled, on the curvature of Harry’s arse cheeks, the twin dimples at the base of his spine. He ghosts his hand over it, almost unwilling to touch, but then Harry turns his head, cheek flat on his pillow. His gaze is dark and knowing, but there's a pleading quality in it too and something bright and startling flashes through Draco at that look.With a low growl, he straddles the backs of Harry’s knees and fills his hands with the globes of Harry’s arse. He massages them roughly, opening him up while his fingers knead deep into the muscle. Harry doesn’t clench away from it, simply slides his torso down a bit to lift his hips up. 

Draco can barely see in the dimness of the room and he wants to, _fuck,_ he wants to. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask Harry to spell the lights on, but he catches himself, knowing somehow not to ask Harry to use his magic now. He stretches to reach his own wand and casts the lights on. 

“Draco,” Harry says, low like a warning. But the flush riding high over his cheekbones tells a different story, as does the way he pushes his hips even higher and struggles to spread the knees Draco has pinned to the bed. Draco flicks him a glance, a thoughtless twitch of his eyebrow. Harry’s eyes zero on it, and his breath leaves him in a heavy rush. It’s interesting, that he can affect Harry with a simple arch look, but before his mind can follow the thread of thought, he breaks their gaze and turns back to his task, his own exhale loud and rattling.

Harry’s arse is… Draco had known it was gorgeous, even before they arrived. But staring at his cheeks held open, golden skin surrounding the shadow of his crease, Draco feels momentarily bewildered by the sheer amount of things that cross his mind of what he _could_ do, what he _wants_ to do. The skin between Harry’s buttocks is pale; his hole furled and tight. Draco adjusts his seat, climbing up to knock Harry’s knees wide and settle between them; Harry’s balls hang heavily, drawn up slightly. A good portion of his swollen, bobbing prick is visible beneath.

“Have you—” Draco asks roughly.

“Shut up, Malfoy, and eat me,” Harry mutters. He turns his face away. The back of his neck is bright red, shocking under his raven hair. He widens his thighs.

It wasn’t what he was asking but since it was in his plans anyway, Draco gives a mental shrug beneath the roar of desire that pulses through him from the visual of Harry’s arse, spread wide for him, from looking at Harry’s blushing neck. Draco lowers his head and licks at Harry’s balls. Unprepared for that move, Harry jerks, then groans when Draco takes one partway into his mouth, sucking gently. The soft skin of Harry’s sac responds like Harry does, writhing a bit against Draco’s tongue as he licks and kisses it, traveling to the next to give it the same treatment. He lifts his head, pressing another, harder kiss to Harry’s perineum, then laps in one long, flat stroke along Harry’s crevice, up to the top of his buttocks. He repeats the gesture again, then again, harder, when Harry grits out, “Malfoy, lick my fucking arse!”

Draco laughs against him. The way Harry is coming apart over something as simple — though admittedly skilfully done — as having his arse teased fills him with delight. He applies his mouth to Harry’s rim, swirling his tongue over the wrinkled flesh. It contracts and relaxes as he adds pressure in tiny increments, until the clenching ring of muscle loosens so easily that his tongue is able to slip in. Harry gives a muffled shout into the pillowcase, and Draco draws his mouth away.

“I think even your arse is blushing, Potter,” he murmurs, turning his head to bite one cheek hard enough to leave an impression of his teeth. Harry’s hands are fisted in the sheets beneath them; his hips rock forward, then back. Draco reaches between his legs and fondles his bobbing cock, smoothing the foreskin back over the head. 

Harry turns his head again, facing him. His forehead is beaded with sweat, his eyes wild and fierce. “Want you to fuck me,” he gets out. “Want you to loosen me up so you can fuck me, Draco. Want your cock in me.”

And however able Draco is to take Harry apart, Harry has twice the experience and skill in breaking Draco, whose cock juts hard and heavy away from his body. It jerks, and Draco places a tight circle of fingers around the base of it for a few precious seconds. 

“Fuck, Potter,” he says, baring his teeth.

“That’s the idea, I think I just said,” Harry says. His sooty lashes flutter, obscuring the bright green, and his eyes close expectantly. His hips angle, wiggle. A noise like he’s never made before rips out of Draco’s throat, and he buries his face between Harry’s cheeks, latching his mouth over Harry’s softened sphincter and giving it a hard suck, mimicking the way he’d taken possession of Harry’s mouth before. 

Harry jerks, groans. He moves as though he can’t decide how _to_ move and so ends up holding himself very, very still instead as Draco works on him, tongue firming up and stabbing inside to coax his hole pliant. Draco leans back, gathers his saliva and spits, hitting the flesh above Harry’s arsehole, then watches as it drips onto the twitching, deliciously responsive spot. He massages it in with the tip of one finger, two, twisting them until they’re in to the second knuckle. Harry’s stillness quite abruptly becomes something else — an alertness that wasn’t there before. But his muscles are tight around Draco’s fingers, shifting and clinging when he retracts them a touch, and so Draco presses them forward again until they’re lodged deeply.

Draco he sinks his fingers deeper. He grapples for his wand, points, and mutters a lubrication charm to ease the way a bit more, and — ah, yes — that seems to do the trick. Harry relaxes with a grunt, tense shoulders sagging forward into the mattress, as Draco’s fingers become slippery and he begins to pump them steadily. It takes a minute or two, but Harry is soon working his hips in time with the movements of Draco’s fingers, subtle little rolls that indicate he wants more, even if he’s unaware of it. 

Draco dips his head back down, tastes the skin stretching around his fingers as he thrusts them, then goes lower, pressing a firmed tongue against Harry’s perineum as he rotates his wrist carefully and presses his fingertips to the swollen bud of Harry’s prostate. Harry breathes out a soft _“Oh!_ A deeper one. “Oh, _yes_ ,” he groans, eyes squeezed tightly shut. His jaw is like granite. “Oh, _please_ …”

Pleased with the reaction, Draco rubs over the spot, tongue swiping and licking the soft flesh outside where his fingers tease from within. Harry’s breathing becomes shallow and Draco, quickly overcome by Harry’s desire, takes the opportunity to add another finger, which slips in with only the barest hint of resistance. Harry's groans grow louder and louder, melting hoarse cries as Draco continues to finger him open, alternating the speed of his tongue and the depth of his fingers.

“Draco,” he chokes out after a few minutes, “I want you to—”

Harry’s been with men, Draco knows. He can barely go a week without seeing a new picture of Harry flirting with this wizard or that, without reading some new speculative piece on Harry’s love life. But there’s something about the way Harry whimpers as Draco strokes his fingers faster into him, something about the way Harry’s hands dig into the sheets, about the way the backs of his spread thighs tremble with want but seem unused to the angle. And Draco knows that this — whatever they’re doing — is no longer the nothing Harry seems to want it to be. He’s asking — Merlin, _begging_ — for Draco’s cock inside him, and though his face is tense with what Draco would mistake for anxiety on someone else, his eyes are ravenous and sure. 

Draco removes his fingers and rises on his knees behind Harry, one hand gripping Harry’s hip and spanning part of his arse cheek with his palm to hold it open with a single, pressing thumb. He guides his cock to Harry’s rim and rubs the dribbling tip of it against the overstimulated nerve endings there. He starts to push and grits his teeth, grabbing his wand once more to cast another slick of oil, over his cock this time. And then he’s easing in, slow and steady — one smooth glide — watching his progress covetously as his cock disappears, inch by inch, into Harry’s slickened, stretching sphincter.

Harry breathes a litany of “ _yes, yes, yes, oh fuck you, Malfoy, do it, yes, oh god,_ beneath him, voice stifled with yearning and likely riding the razor’s edge between pleasure and pain. Draco doesn’t stop to give him time, doesn’t let him adjust to the intrusion in slow increments — that’s not what this _is_ , and not what Harry needs. Draco just continues forward until he’s bottomed out inside of Harry, his balls pressed flush with the trembling curve of Harry’s arse. 

“Harry,” he says, finally pausing to catch his own breath and steady the urge to come. Harry’s arse is so tight around him, the walls shifting close as Harry clenches his arse in response, gasping out shuddering breaths.

“Fuck, Draco, are you waiting for a formal _invitation?_ ” Harry asks. His sarcasm isn't as effective as it should perhaps be, given that it breaks into a whine, but it tweaks something — some instinctive sense of rivalry — in Draco, who hasn’t heard that tone from Harry in years. He reacts like a fifteen-year-old with an angry crush, and lashes out: he withdraws his hips and snaps them forward vigorously. 

“Shut your bloody mouth, Harry, or contribute to the conversation,” Draco snarls in return, doing it again. 

Harry’s moan vibrates through his body. Draco can feel the shiver of it in the hips his fingers are holding in place. “Contribute?” Harry taunts breathlessly. “Why should I bother when you always know everything, you shit?”

A curious sort of roiling irritation burns in Draco’s chest, distinguishing itself from the sort he felt as a teenager by the sweeping _amusement_ that surrounds it. He pulls all the way out, then shoves in to the hilt, going lightheaded from the sudden release and constriction of Harry’s slippery hole. Harry looks over his shoulder, gaze narrow and challenging even as he bares his teeth at the sensation. Draco smiles and does it again and again, locking eyes with Harry as he yanks his cock back to the tip and then buries it back inside until Harry nods, letting his temple fall back to the pillow, eye-contact still caught.

Harry’s surrender is beautiful, now that he’s gotten whatever glimpse of Draco he needed for this. That confusing mix of fascination and anger that always bubbles under the surface of their snark, that neither of them have fully learned to let go of. He licks his lips and murmurs, “Yes”; an answer to a question Draco hadn’t been aware he was asking. 

Draco softens his thrusts, once Harry cedes control. His hips establish a fluid pace and he rolls them smoothly, cock gliding in and out of Harry with lovely rhythmic strokes. He slips his hand over the small of Harry’s back. It’s over-heated and slick with sweat, and Draco rests his forefinger in one of the dimples before tracing the spine up, then down. He follows it into the crease of Harry’s arse, rubbing at the skin stretched tight around his plunging cock and Harry cracks out a loud groan. He begins working his hips backward to fuck himself on Draco’s cock. 

Choking, Draco manages a broken sort of “Nngghh,” that Harry seems to like, because his legs go tight, knees bending and shins coming up to hook around Draco’s calves, the tops of his toes pushing bruisingly into the muscle for leverage. His hips undulate as Draco rocks into him faster. Harry reaches down and starts pulling on his cock, his bicep bunching as he wanks himself. Draco wants to _see_ it, but there’s something so erotic, so mesmerising, about those quick motions of Harry’s shoulder and arm that Draco realises his teeth have sunken into his lower lip only when he tastes copper. 

“Harry,” Draco grits out. He swoops over Harry’s back, snagging an arm around Harry’s ribcage to tug him up. It’s a horrible angle, and Draco’s sure they’re going to topple but then he feels the warm mist of Harry’s magic, almost thoughtlessly swept over them, and they somehow stay in place. Harry turns his head and catches Draco’s mouth with his own, licking sweetly over the small break in Draco’s lip. His lashes are lowered but his eyes are open and hazy with want, and Draco shudders, kisses him back messily, the wet squelching sound and feel of his cock pounding into Harry overwhelming his senses. He places his free hand over Harry’s frantically moving one, wanting to feel him come as the rising tide of his own orgasm causes his balls to draw up tight and all rhythm to be lost. 

They grind against each other, kissing with open mouths and open eyes, and Harry issues a guttural moan, bringing up his free hand to thread possessive fingers through Draco’s hair as though Draco might pull away. The noise lances through Draco at every pulse point.

Then Harry _clenches_ , the walls of his arse going tight around Draco’s cock, and the wave breaks over Draco. He drives his hips forward though he can’t get any deeper, shocks of pleasure snaking down his spine as he comes. His hand grips Harry’s fist harder, helping him jerk himself, and Harry gives a broken cry that Draco swallows. He feels warm spurts of fluid coating their fists as they keep moving, the same sort that has made Harry almost too slippery from the inside, and finally their kiss breaks as they both focus on wringing out the last of their climaxes. Draco’s head drops forward, cheek hot and sweaty against Harry’s shoulder, and Harry’s head drops back against the opposite of Draco’s, and for several long, delicious moments, their bodies twitch, synchronised with one another.

***

In the aftermath, there are the mundane realities of clean-up, of the return of Harry’s guilt and regret. But the edges have been cushioned by the relief his body was given, and Draco can traverse the geography here. He knows what it’s like to carry that sort of thing with him day in and day out.

They laze together for awhile, talking quietly in little, fractured sentences that don’t often make sense, accompanied by languid laughter.

“Have you never…?”

“Not like that… for a little bit. Not ‘til the end, because I couldn’t relax enough to—”

“Mmm… First rule is to relax.”

“Yeah. I did.”

“I noticed.”

Harry plays with Draco’s hand, twiddling with his fingers and tracing his lifeline. Draco’s leg somehow winds up draping over Harry’s as he rests on his side and allows Harry’s slow perusal of his hand. It feels like too intimate a thing to slip the other into Harry’s wild, sweaty hair but Draco does it anyway, because if Harry can investigate, he can too. He curls the hair around his fingers, scrapes at Harry’s scalp with his fingertips, and Harry arches into it, smoothing his own thumb up over Draco’s wrist in a gentle brush against the veins there.

“Sorry I hurt you,” Harry says finally. 

“I can—”

“Take care of yourself, I know.” Harry flicks his eyes up to Draco; studies him. “I can still be sorry.”

“Point.” Draco leans down and nips just above Harry’s collarbone, sweeping his tongue out over the skin and tasting salt. “I’d like to know what happened, though.”

Harry sighs. “I should probably give up the case but—” He swallows, lifting Draco’s hand. “It’s a long story.”

More alert, Draco releases Harry’s hair and props his head on his hand. “The Three Brothers?”

“That’s part of it. I can’t— Draco, I can’t tell you all of it.”

“Because it’s too dangerous for me? Don’t you think I should be able to decide what—”

“No. I don’t know, maybe. But.” Harry rubs his face for a second and pinches the bridge of his nose before turning to look at Draco squarely. “Look. I know it sounds bad, but I just can’t. I don’t talk about it. When I think about it, things happen like— like earlier, at dinner. Like when we were sleeping. It’s one of the reasons I had to work so hard on my Occlumency; it’s another way to… compartmentalise.”

Draco understands about the need to compartmentalise thoughts of the Dark Lord, and surely Harry has more reason than any. But… “It does sound bad,” he agrees mildly. “Like you don’t trust me with it.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Harry says. It stings a little, but Draco is starting to recognise when Harry is actively trying _not_ to be a prick, and this is one of those times, so. 

Draco nods. “What do you trust me with?” He opens his mouth. Hesitates. …Fuck it. “Are you the Master of Death?”

Harry’s gaze skitters away. He’s silent for so long that Draco thinks he won’t get an answer. Then, “How well do you know the story?”

Heart thumping hard, Draco manages an even, “As well as any wizarding-born child, I suppose.” He swallows. “Which is to say, very well.”

“And the Master of Death would need… what?” 

Draco barely refrains from rolling his eyes. Trust Harry to choose cagey over direct whenever Draco has the courage to ask a straight question. “The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the…” He falters. “The Invisibility Cloak.”

“Yeah.”

“Is that.” Draco licks his lips, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. Harry’s eyes have gone flat and distant again, but his hand is still gentle on Draco’s. “You said you’d died. But the Resurrection Stone isn’t supposed to bring people back to- to _life,_ ” he says.

“Draco,” Harry says, a touch sharper. Draco realises his mouth is hanging open slightly and he closes it with a snap. Harry’s gaze edges on a glare, and he looks away again, taking a deep breath. “I’m not talking about that part.”

“Right, no.” Draco’s insides feel shaky from it. He inches his hand away from Harry’s, up his flat belly and chest to the small brand, the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. He strokes it with a feather-light touch. “So, if one were the Master of Death, what might they be able to do?”

“A lot, I would guess,” Harry says, sounding relieved at the redirect. “It might unleash any latent magical power they had. It might make them unable to use their wand for fear of—”

“Of getting Disarmed,” Draco finishes quietly. “Yes, I see. Could one… Would one be, then, immortal?”

The corner of Harry’s mouth curls up, a bit ironically. “One might not be sure, even if they thought not. But it might make them damn good at Healing Spells, even if they didn’t have enough training or finesse to ensure there were no scars.” He reaches up, brushes against the swollen skin over Draco’s eyebrow and forehead. It no longer aches at all, but the light touch causes Draco to shiver. He leans into it.

“Perhaps one should have gone into Healing, then, instead of a profession that requires them to use defensive and offensive magic on a daily basis,” Draco says, pulling away — as much from the soft, affectionate look on Harry’s face as the touch of his fingers.

Harry snorts. “God, you sound like Hermione,” he says, and though Draco wants to be insulted, it’s impossible when Harry kisses him, warm and sweet, then swings over onto him. Draco’s legs open, coming up to bracket Harry’s hips. “I’d like to—again,” Harry says, hips rolling. His half-hard cock rubs against Draco’s in persistent — and rather convincing — entreaty.

“Really,” Draco drawls, cupping the back of Harry’s neck and pulling him down for another kiss. “I never would have guessed; you were so subtle about it.”

Though Harry laughs, bright flags of red stain his cheeks. He settles on his forearms, leaning down so his breath is hot against Draco’s ear. “I’d like to do it again the way we just did,” he says, low. Then, as if making a case, he adds, “I’m still… loose.”

Draco’s cock swells so quickly, he makes a noise of complaint. He nods wordlessly and rolls Harry back over, kissing him again and again, and this time it’s quick and dirty: he pins Harry’s wrists to the mattress with one hand as he slides inside him, wanking Harry efficiently with his free hand. Harry’s hips fly up to meet Draco’s pounding thrusts, but he wiggles his hands out of Draco’s grasp, pushing him onto his back and climbing over him. He straddles Draco’s hips, biting his lip as he guides Draco’s cock back inside; he rides him, ruddy wet prick rubbing over Draco’s stomach, arse bouncing against Draco’s thighs until Draco gasps and climaxes on a rush of adrenaline. Chest still heaving, he shoves Harry off of him and presses him back against the soiled sheets to suck him off. It takes less than a minute before Harry is coming in thick pulses over his tongue, the whole second round less than fifteen.

They fall asleep and wake up to do it again, then once more, and by the time orange tones begin creeping over the edge of the horizon, Draco’s arse and cock are deliciously sore and his muscles feel as though he’s taken a Stunner to each of them. Draco feels saturated with lust, gone reckless by his ability to touch Harry whenever he wants and be touched in return. It's over ten years of repressed desire gushing out of him, and when Harry drags him to the shower and falls to his knees just after dawn, taking Draco’s cock in his mouth, Draco doesn’t even bother objecting that he can’t or that it might feel too sensitive — it does a little; even that engrossed, skillful licking and gentle suction isn’t entirely comfortable — because he knows that, somehow, he _can_ and, moreover, he _wants to._

His climax pours over him like warm honey, two of Harry’s fingers against his arse massaging his swollen rim while he licks Draco’s oversensitive cock and the water pours over them both. He kisses Draco’s thigh, then rises with a jauntily exhausted smile; Draco lowers to his knees to return the favour.

“Well,” Harry says, slipping into a thick dressing robe afterward, still a bit breathless, “I hope that’ll sate you for a while, because I think my prick might fall off.”

Draco snickers, staring into the mirror to cast a careful shaving charm over his disguised face. It’s a little tricky, because he has to rely on what he knows about his own features rather than his actual reflection, and he keeps missing spots. Harry sidles over to him, catching Draco’s jaw in one hand. 

“Let me,” he says huskily, and Draco’s heart turns over as Harry traces the air over Draco’s cheeks and under his chin, the tingle of Harry’s magic piercing and sweet against Draco’s skin. He presses a lingering kiss to Draco’s mouth afterward, then moves to look at his own reflection and starts a vigorous cleaning charm on his teeth, as if this they share their toilette all the time.

“I don’t know that I would ever be,” Draco blurts, flushing. 

Harry’s eyes meet his in the mirror. “Would be what?”

“I—uhm.” Draco swallows. He tilts his chin up defiantly, despite the fact that it feels like his face is about to melt off. “Sated.”

“Oh,” is all Harry says. He adds a frothy mouthwash with a flick of his hand, then spits and wipes his mouth with a flannel. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Draco says blankly.

Harry turns, leaning against the edge of the countertop with a small wince. “Well, yeah.” He looks as though he’s striving to seem practical under his faintly embarrassed expression. He clears his throat. “I mean, I’m not proposing, but, uh. Last night was good. I’d like to have more nights like that. And we, sort of, you know —talked about the dating thing.”

“About how you didn't do it. And then you became a prick,” Draco points out with a bit of a scowl creasing his eyebrows. He smooths them, attempting patience. “Which you didn’t explain.”

“Well, I’ll try not to be a prick again,” Harry says simply. “Can’t guarantee it, though, which you should know. I mean, look who I’m talking to.”

Draco gives his shoulder a little shove, huffing an exasperated laugh when Harry grins. He turns back to the mirror and starts a series of drying charms on his hair while Harry simply grabs another flannel and uses it to scrub at his own, then combs through the damp strands, which curl and begin to spring up, even though they’re only half dry. 

“I don’t want to get married,” Draco offers after a moment, "so your lack of proposal is a positive in my book." 

“Really? I thought all traditional—”

“I lost that card when I came out,” Draco mutters. He avoids Harry’s eyes in the mirror and snorts, affecting a bored tone. “It’s just a good thing my inheritance was protected as the only heir to the Malfoy line. Which will end with me,” he adds, in case it needs to be clarified.

Harry’s quiet for a long moment, blinking. Then he says, “More time for other things, right?”

Surprised, Draco nods. “You don’t want—?” Somehow, he’s always pictured Harry as the sort to raise a gaggle of brats.

“I used to think I did,” Harry says. “But no. None of it.”

“Oh.” Draco absorbs that, disconcerted. “And I don’t expect you to tell me your stories until— unless— If… I don’t need you to.”

Harry studies him. “Okay. Good,” he says with a short nod. Draco allows the bitter sense of disappointment that stabs at him, then brushes it away, because what he’d said was true. Harry leans in and drops a kiss against the side of his neck, then wanders out of the en suite. “Want me to order room service?”

Draco abandons his hair—it feels right, anyway, even if he can’t be sure—and follows him. “Room service? Aren’t we supposed to—” He stops, confused. “What _are_ we supposed to do today, again?”

“Basic recon. Which is pretty much nothing. We’ll scout for which area the meet might take place in, but we can do that later,” Harry says blithely, looking over the room service menu. He chews on his lip for a second; his voice becomes oddly tentative. “You’re—you like sweet stuff for breakfast, right? They have waffles and that porridge with the raisins.”

Draco stares at him, unsure how to respond. “I like waffles,” seems the safest, given the overly-casual look on Harry’s face, though his eyes are still fastened to the menu. “If they could add whipped cream, that’d be good. And a side of bacon. And coffee. And I liked that orange juice.”

Harry glances up; the smile playing around his mouth is fond. “I’ll just hope you don’t have a heart attack by the age of forty,” he says dryly. “And try not to eat all of it myself.”

Sniffing, Draco turns away. “We have fast metabolisms. Besides, if you’re so worried, why don’t you just spell out the fat and calories?”

“Never tastes quite the same,” Harry mumbles, scratching his chin. 

“Only for food already prepared with spells. Works perfectly fine on Muggle-cooked food,” Draco informs him, unable to repress his grin at the way Harry’s eyes light up.

“ _Really?_ ” He plucks up the phone and places Draco’s order, then adds a full fry-up for himself and two extra servings of waffles while Draco stares in astonishment. He puts the phone down, beaming. “I didn’t know that!”

Draco’s mouth quirks again at the open delight on Harry’s face. “You don’t _need_ it, you know,” he says, appraising Harry’s leanly toned body. He appreciates it, but can’t imagine that Harry would be less attractive at any size. “If you’re worried about gaining weight—”

“No. I just train so hard that I feel sort of—sick if I eat that stuff too much.” He grimaces, settling on the bed and criss-crossing his legs like a child. His dressing gown gapes open, and Draco arches an eyebrow. Merlin, it can’t be good that he’s having so much trouble not smiling. Then Harry shoots him a swift, considering look and says, “I didn’t get a lot to eat, growing up, until I went to Hogwarts. I’d eat double if I could and not even worry about gaining, but with the physical stuff we end up doing…”

Draco’s shoulders knot at the way Harry slips that in there. He consciously loosens them and sits on the bed, copying Harry’s pose. When he’s sure his voice will sound casual, he asks, “You didn’t get a lot to eat, growing up?”

Another veiled look, another shake of Harry’s head. And he starts to talk.

Draco listens, only stopping him to ask the occasional question and, once, to allow their breakfast in and to spell out three-quarters of the fat and calories from Harry’s meal. They sit on the bed and eat as Harry describes his horrible upbringing, the way he sometimes went days with nothing more than a bowl of cold, tinned soup. The way his uncle used to box his ears after a bout of Harry’s accidental magic; the way his aunt used to screech that he was a freak. As Harry continues in the same dismissively light tone, Draco hates Muggles with a vengeance he’s never really felt about them before, even when he thought they were lesser. But he keeps his face bland, nodding at the right times, because—well, Harry is sharing it with him, not bothering to spare any details. He’s sharing something of his own accord. Something personal and _real._

If this is the only way Harry can bare himself, Draco thinks he’ll take it—for as long as they have. Being naked seems to come easy to Harry; the rest is… more difficult.

They lapse into silence for a bit while they eat. Then Harry kisses him—he tastes like the strawberries he got to cover his waffles—and asks about Muggle/Magical theory, and why the preparation of food matters, and Draco launches into the topic to give them something else to think about for a while.

Harry has almost cleared all of his plates—and Draco is long done—when a soft knock on the door sounds. They exchange a look. 

“Just a second!” Harry calls. He lowers his voice, even though their Silencing charms don’t warrant that level of caution. “Aurors would have Apparated.”

“Yes… Could be another letter from Granger,” Draco says, getting up. He smooths and straightens his robe, tying the sash tight, though of course no one would be put off if he answered the door naked. He gives Harry a pointed look and Harry glances down, then laughs quietly at the way his arse and prick are on display, with his legs crossed and robe open. 

“You could have told me.”

“I was enjoying the view,” Draco says primly. He waits silently as Harry fastens his robe securely and arranges himself into a more decent pose.

Harry smiles wickedly. “And you thought eating naked would be unappetising.” 

Draco chuckles and opens the door. Liz stands there, wide-eyed and trembling. Draco feels his eyebrows fly up. “Liz!” He ushers her inside; notes the sudden tension in Harry’s body. “Uh, Harry, this is the woman I told you about yesterday—Liz. Liz, this is my husband—”

“You’re wizards,” she interrupts flatly. Her body continues to tremble, but her voice is sure.

He and Harry look at each other again. Draco’s hand on her shoulder falls away and he takes a step back. 

“We are,” Harry confirms evenly, with an over-abundance of politeness in his tone. “And you’re a witch, I take it? Or are you coming here to commit some kind of hate crime against wizarding kind?”

“I think you’re here investigating my husband,” she says miserably, wrapping her arms around her middle and hugging herself. “I think you’re Aurors, and I need your help— Oh.” 

Her eyes take in their state of undress and though she, herself is only wearing boy shorts and a sort of jogging bra, Draco and Harry’s general state of dishabille, their rumpled bedding covered with plates of food, and—fuck, Draco realises, even the smell of sex in the air—must bring her to a conclusion she hadn’t really entertained. She hunches in on herself, flushing. Her lower lip disappears between her teeth.

“I’m sorry,” she says, backing away a little. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t think—when I met you, you seemed… You found that memory of my husband and—”

“Stop,” Draco says. He glances at Harry, who purses his lips curiously and nods at Draco to continue. “We’re not investigating your husband. But what can we help you with?”

“N-no, I shouldn’t have come,” she says. “Not when you two are—” She waves her hand vaguely, forehead creasing. “I thought you were undercover. I didn’t realise you were actually… you know.”

Harry, so stoic up until this point, suddenly begins laughing. Draco shoots him an irritated look but feels it fade into something else as Harry buries his face in both hands, his shoulders shaking. Liz’s eyes are wide and shocked, and she looks at Draco as if _he’ll_ be able to explain why Harry’s suddenly gone mad with helpless laughter.

“Harry!” Draco barks, trying to put some sting into it, but that only makes him laugh harder. “Could you _not_ right now?”

“Sorry!” Harry huffs out raggedly, trying to get himself under control. He wipes at his eyes and sighs, breaking into little fits of surprisingly delightful giggles every few seconds as he winds down. He takes a deep, gulping breath, smooths out his face but for his twitching lips, and turns to Liz. “We are ‘you-know’ing,” he tells her gravely. He looks at Draco and shrugs. “Well, we _are._ ”

Reluctantly amused, Draco rolls his eyes. He takes Liz by the arm and leads her to the small sofa, then props himself against the bed as Harry scoots to sit beside him. “What can we do for you?”

Liz glances back and forth between them. “If—if you could give me the right person to _go_ to about this…” She sighs, and Draco reaches out tentatively with his mind. That same thick, overwhelming fear he’d felt yesterday when she’d spoken to her husband envelops her now, but her mind is blocked by a sturdy wall of Occlumency. 

“Why don’t you tell us what the problem is, and we’ll see if we can help?” Draco asks gently.

“I—He’s always had these big ideas about getting wealthy quick. My husband. Roger,” she clarifies. “I knew it _mattered_ to him, but… It’s usually small stuff, but this time, I think it’s bad—I think it’s really bad.”

“Bad how?” Harry asks. He presses his knee against Draco’s. “How do you know?

She looks slightly shifty, and then her face crumples. “I have a natural ability as a magical empath.”

Now it’s Draco’s turn to laugh, though he has enough decorum not to fall into the helpless peals that the Saviour of the Wizarding World and apparent Master Of Death suddenly seems prone. “I see,” Draco says finally, straightening his expression and elbowing Harry hard the ribs when his giggles seem about to pick up again. “And you’re aware of what a rare talent that is?”

She gives him such a narked-off look that Draco holds up both hands. “ _Yes,_ I’m aware,” she mutters. 

Harry scratches his forehead, eyes still crinkled at the edges. “Alright, so how does that play into what your husband may or may not be involved in?”

Liz takes a deep breath. “Well… he’s pretty good at potions,” she says haltingly. “And we came here initially so he could help with a delicate batch of—it’s not _illegal_ or anything—something really similar to Amortentia. It’s not as long-lasting, and doesn’t induce the physical components of lust or love, but—”

“So then just a potion form of the Imperious curse?” Draco says, bristling slightly. He still remembers the way his wand had trembled when casting that on Katie Bell and Madam Rosmerta; the way their eyes had glazed over to become soft and willing. “Makes someone highly—suggestible, or even… obedient?”

“I guess.” She nibbles on the corner of her lip, then adds defensively, “But like I said, not illegal. I’ve checked. I always check before Roger gets involved in one of his stunts. Anyway.” She shakes her head, dipping into the small bag she’d brought and pulling out a piece of parchment for them. “We’d not been here two days when the wizard who commissioned him asked about the betting pools he used to run. I found this.”

Draco takes it from her. It’s blank, and he stares at it in confusion for a moment before— “Fuck!”

He drops the paper as a white-hot flare of pain shoots across the length of his Mark. Harry’s hands scramble to him; he holds Draco steady, eyes wide. 

“Are you okay?” Harry turns to Liz, who looks just as shocked as Draco suspects he does. “What the fuck did you just give him?”

“I-I don’t know!” she cries, cringing back into the sofa at Harry’s fury. “I can just—I can see smoke all around it. It smells like—like brimstone. It’s Dark Magic, really Dark Magic! You can’t use magic on it!”

Harry swoops, eyes dangerously narrow, to pick up the parchment on the floor. Draco flinches away from it instinctively, then straightens his spine. Harry _Accios_ his glasses and shoves them onto the bridge of his nose. “Names?”

“What?” Liz leans forward and Draco does too, as close as he can without coming in contact with the sheet Harry’s holding. “I didn’t see any names.”

“It was covered with layer upon layer of concealment charms,” Harry mumbles. “Simple enough to remove if you know what to look for.”

“Where’s your wa—?” Liz starts to ask.

Draco shakes his head at her. To Harry, he says, “I _still_ don’t see anything.”

“I think you have to be holding it.” He looks up finally, mouth pursed. “It’s two lists; one has the bartender’s name, and Tom’s, and—” He pauses. “One or two resort guests I can identify. The other has ours and another few resort guests. And numbers.”

“Bidders and the people organising it?” Draco wonders aloud. “How high they think people will bid?”

“Probably.” Harry Summons a quill and some clean parchment, scratching down the list, while Draco grabs his wand and Summons the Ministry communications file. Harry’s handwriting is atrocious, but Draco can still make out his pseudonym, and Harry’s, and, hell, Liz and Alice’s names as well, on a third list that Harry didn’t bother to mention in front of her.

After he’s done writing the information, Harry slaps his parchment into the file-folder and they watch it glow as the document is transferred. Harry takes a second, lifting up the first parchment and murmuring several more charms, then looks at Liz. “Do you still see the Dark Magic on it?”

“Yes,” she says simply. “I think it’s been cursed so that anyone who tries to take a wand to it will suffer. I tapped it with mine and it was…” She gives a mournful whimper. “It was bad. Like I was about to be broken apart inside.”

Harry jerks a sharp look at her. He turns to Draco slowly, mouth set in a grim line. “I hate to ask, but…”

Draco looks at him levelly, squaring his shoulders. He reaches out and slips the parchment between his thumb and forefinger. It no longer _hurts_ but he can feel the remnants of the Dark Magic sunk deep into the threads of the parchment. “Yes,” he murmurs, stroking it for a moment. “I see what she means.” 

Now that he’s able to focus on something other than the unpleasant, squirming discomfort of the Mark, he can sensel where the burn came from; a spot deep inside himself that feels as though it’s being exposed, peeled back layer by layer. Ready to be broken away. He pulls his hand back. 

Draco clears his throat. “Yes, it feels that way,” he clarifies, and exchanges a look with Liz.

“I somehow don’t think it has to do with the type of magic being used on it so much as who wants to see what’s on it,” Harry informs her quietly. “Whose name is on it.”

Her face is blank, and then her eyes widen with horror. “Is my— Oh, no, Roger would never hurt me.”

“I wouldn’t hurt Daniel, but he feels it too,” Harry points out, exceedingly gentle. “He may not know what your name is on the list for.”

“But you do?”

“No,” Harry admits. “I have some ideas, but— I think we should put you into protective custody for the time being.”

“What?” Liz scoffs. “You’re _mad_ if you think I’m leaving my husband all alone with these people!”

Draco stares at Harry, trying to discern where this is coming from; what his name on the list is for. That many of the names were couples didn’t escape his notice, but he can’t figure out where Harry is going with this.

Harry sighs, appealing to her with his eyes. He should look silly in his fluffy terrycloth dressing gown, but there’s a poignancy to his face that takes Draco’s breath away. “I want you to consider how much safer it’ll be for _him,_ if you can’t be used against him during whatever’s happening here.”

And then it clicks for Draco. He almost blurts it out in front of her—the word “ _sacrifices_ ” heavy and noxious on his tongue like the most foul sort of potion—but he manages to bite it back at the last second.

“You need to listen,” Draco says abruptly, voice hard. It takes the most desperate sort of effort to soften it. “He would want you out of the line of danger, wouldn’t he?”

“But I’m the one who keeps him safe!” Liz objects, voice growing high-pitched and hysterical. “I’m the one who _watches out for him!_ I won’t leave him in this; you either take both of us or neither, he’s just a Gryffindor—he doesn’t ever think about _keeping himself safe!_ ”

“They never do,” Draco says, and then casts a soothing sleep-spell over her. Her eyes flutter and her body slumps into the cushions.

Harry reaches over and lifts his free hand, kissing the back of the knuckles in a surprisingly sweet gesture. Draco’s heart, so heavy just seconds prior, lightens at the feel of Harry’s warm lips. Because he supects like Harry might need it too, he twists their handclasp and brings Harry’s wrist up to his own mouth, kissing the soft inside of it, over the dark blue veins that thrum with his life’s blood.

“So I’m to be sacrificed?” Draco asks lightly.

“You’re definitely to be something-ed,” Harry returns in the same tone.

“Good to know in advance, at least.” Draco nods consideringly.

Giving him a rueful smile, Harry shoves his free hand through his hair, leaving it even more rumpled than before. “Well, this took a turn.”

“Yes, it did,” Draco says. He regrets that they won’t be able to spend the time before nightfall doing the boring side of casework, regrets that they won’t be able to dart back to the room midday to perhaps get wrapped up in each other again. But that’s not what they’re here for, anyway. He exhales. “So let’s get to work.”


	3. Chapter 3

An Auror from the Ministry shows up to collect Liz’s still-sleeping form. Draco regrets it, but now that they’ve cottoned on to the potential risk of each person’s role, he and Harry can’t chance it. Before the Auror shows up, he files through what he can of Liz’s mind, notices no inconsistencies with what she’s said about anything. He makes a mental note of her handwriting and uses it to forge a letter to her husband, claiming that she can no longer be a part of whatever’s going on. After thinking for a moment, he adds, “I love you and hope you’ll come back to me,” at the bottom, then signs with her distinctive flourish.

“We’ll need to separate again,” Harry says, as both of them strip back out of the clothes they’d put on for the Auror’s visit. They’d also freshened the room so it didn’t look quite so much like a fuck-den, but that was more pragmatic, Draco he thinks. He’s still not quite sure where they stand, officially.

“We can’t,” Draco says, thinking. “At least not for the whole of the day. I know there’s a lot more to cover, but it really would look odd if we’re seen again without each other. Especially if _both_ of our names are on the list.”

“Yeah. Fuck.” Harry quirks him a lopsided smile. “Smart.”

“Thanks,” Draco says, blinking.

“Okay, so then—we’re fucking.”

“What?” Draco says, taking an automatic step toward him, his body complying even before his mind catches up with a firm _not now!_

Harry notices, of course he does. His smile becomes sly and his eyes smoulder for a moment. “Shit, don’t do that,” he murmurs. His face is taut with sudden arousal and, sheepishly, Draco takes a step back.

“What did you mean?” he asks. His cheeks are burning. Although it’s really not _fair,_ is it, that Harry’s standing there with his cock filling out, that he’s looking the way he does, and that Draco knows how they feel together, now. So it’s not entirely his fault.

Harry swivels away with a tight laugh. “I literally cannot even look at you now, Malfoy.”

Draco smirks, relieved and as flattered as he thinks Harry might’ve been a moment ago. Of course, now he has a splendid view of Harry’s back—the beautifully defined dip in its spine, the firm curve of Harry’s arse, the muscles of which are tense and clenched, and the crevice between the cheeks, in which Draco was buried for—

Draco chokes, turning around quickly too. “This is _not helpful, Harry,_ ” he scolds— both of them, really. “We can’t even—Just tell me what the fuck you were thinking,” he says to the wall, annoyed by his burgeoning erection. 

“I’ll Apparate around to the different rooms of those listed,” Harry says.

“Some of them are Muggle,” Draco tells him.

“Right, I know. If I get caught, I’ll use a gentle Obliviate. Or a sleep spell. They need to be away from here, I think,” Harry’s voice comes.

“What if we’re wrong about the targets and you’re just guiding whoever’s behind it away from trouble?” Draco asks. “And what does this have to do with me fucking you again?”

Harry makes a strangled sound. “I never said it was your turn again, I said—” Another one of those laughs comes, deep and rough and charmingly bawdy. “People won’t be suspicious if they think we’re in here, having newly-married sex. As long as we’re together, right? Then we can meet and check out the hot springs together. A couple-y thing for us to do.”

“Fine.”

“And then we should try to wait it out,” Harry continues. “Be seen together so we’re not under suspicion for disappearing the people they want.”

“Fine.”

“And then you’ll leave before the meet and get someone to substitute who won’t be in danger,” Harry says.

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“No, you moron,” Draco sneers at the wall. It doesn’t give him the same kind of intense satisfaction that sneering directly at Harry’s face does, but— “I’m not abandoning you _or_ this assignment, and so help me Merlin, Harry, if you try to put me to sleep I’ll hex a flaccid prick to your forehead.”

“Oh. Yeah, that didn’t sound much like you,” Harry confesses, sounding disappointed.

Draco snorts. “I’m good with the part where we’re seen together and the hot springs. But we’ll split up that list—I mean, I _have_ talked to more people than you, they’re less likely to run screaming about a man defying the laws of physics by popping into existence in front of them if it’s _me_ —and there’s no way I’m not there tonight, not knowing what—”

Appalled, Draco snaps his mouth shut, barely managing to keep the words, “this all does to you,” back.

He hears the whisper of a sound; movement. And then Harry’s hands are gentle on Draco’s hips, voice gentle in Draco’s ear. “Not knowing what?”

“What this case may mean,” Draco covers, powerless to stop the backwards press of his own body. Harry’s cock comes into firm contact with his left buttock, and Draco lets out a stifled moan of desire that fades into silence when Harry moves away.

“Jesus and Merlin,” Harry mutters.

Draco nods. “There is nothing relaxing at all about having all of my bits on display,” he agrees unsteadily, swallowing. “Or having to see yours.”

“I’ve got to get out of here now,” Harry grinds out. Draco turns, stomach plummeting at the tone in Harry’s voice. But then Harry comes back, closing the two-foot gap between them and kisses Draco hard, fingers tight on his jaw. He gives Draco a stern look and says, “Summon me when you’re done; I’ll meet you back here and we’ll head out to the hot springs. I’ll take the first three names on the list.” 

He Apparates before Draco can reply, and Draco stands dumbly for a moment in the suddenly empty room, cock thick and bobbing away from his groin, lips still burning with the force of Harry’s kiss. He shakes his head, trying to gather his thoughts, and it occurs to him he doesn’t know the exact layout of the lodge the way Harry does. 

Giving his cock an apologetic look—he could wank now, of course, but he’s still a bit sore and doesn’t really want to if Harry isn’t there to watch or participate—Draco sits on the bed to think of his options, and wait for his erection to subside.

***

Draco snicks his wand out of its holster and casts a surreptitious Disillusionment charm, even though the hallway is empty. He lets himself into room 215.

In the end, it had been as simple as striding to the front desk and asking for a master key card from the Auror on duty, whom Draco had recognised only because he was wearing a Hogwarts class ring. It was a silly little enchanted piece of jewellery that’s been in and out of fashion for years; for what reason, Draco had never been able to figure out—the rings are downright ugly. 

But the Auror had simply nodded at his request, not asking any questions. Draco had thanked him, then crisply informed him that wearing magically identifying jewellery while undercover at a Muggle resort was not the most professional thing one could do.

The Auror had grinned unabashedly, flashing all of his teeth. “Neither is shagging your partner,” he’d said under his breath, handing over the plastic card. Draco’d snorted, half-irritated and half-impressed. He wasn’t shocked by the implication, by the idea that a rumour—or even the truth—was floating around. But he had wondered if the boy would use some proper manners if he knew who the partners _were_ , and had promptly decided that he probably wouldn’t. Some people were inflicted with too much cheek.

Like Harry, he thinks as the cushioned door slips shut behind him quietly. Harry has always been like that—too much sarcasm and not enough sense.

Draco shakes off the thought and looks around. Everything seems calm; eerily silent. Too much like the first room he’d visited. And the second. His stomach pitches uncomfortably as he spies the dark, heavily rhinestoned sunglasses he remembers seeing perched on Alice’s head two days prior as they’d chatted in the pool. They rest on a small table near the bed, but other than that, the room looks untouched; the cleaning crew—something he and Harry had requested not come into their suite—has obviously been here.

But when he checks, he sees her clothing is gone, too. As is Alans’s. If not for the small bit of black plastic resting on the table, winking flashes of sunlight at him as he begins a series of methodical checks, it would be easy to assume the room was vacant. He looks through the wardrobe, the en suite, and under the bed. Everything is empty, clean.

At length, he sweeps the room with a series of revealing charms to search for magical signatures, and finally he finds something; the low pulse of wand usage, hours old. Most of the spellwork has faded but Draco can make out a shimmer of blue into pale green, indicating some sort of transformative spell—transfiguration, possibly—and a deep, muted grey, which could be any number of things: a sedative spell, Obliviation, constraints tightened against a struggle. Or a combination of things. And then there’s something that makes his Mark pulse unpleasantly, a shift of movement. But the trace of wand work leaves no other signature beyond a bad taste in his mouth and a reaction on the skin of his forearm.

Draco backs away from the last section of the room carefully, casting a wide arc with his wand to copy the traces of magic before swishing it in a low spiral to sanitize it from the air. He walks over to their sliding glass door and stares out.

Alice and Alan’s room is on the opposite side of the lodge from his and Harry’s; they have a view of the path into the forest that leads to the hot springs, and Draco looks out over the landscaped grass and the darker trees beyond for several minutes, thinking. Each room has been the same; devoid of signs of human life with the exception of the sunglasses, here. He doesn’t suppose whoever’s behind this will have too difficult a time covering it up from the Muggle authorities; a few simple Obliviates and an Imperius curse or two ought to do it, but—

He pauses, frowning, then Apparates back to their room and Summons Harry, who arrives less than a minute later. 

“The potions,” Draco says, first thing, before Harry’s even caught a breath. “The potions, something like Amortentia, remember, but also—”

“Like the Imperius curse,” Harry finishes. He inhales slowly; lets it out. “To cover up the disappearances.”

Nodding, Draco says, “We need to get more people in here for tonight. All of yours were missing too?”

“Almost all of them. One woman from the first list still had her husband with her; there’s Tom, and there’s you,” Harry murmurs. His jaw ticks and the lines around his mouth are hard. “I can’t figure out who’s complicit and who’s a potential victim. All of the rooms I checked had magical traces in them, but barely enough to identify. And it’s too dangerous to bring in more people on this.”

Draco scoffs. “I know _you’re_ accustomed to running into the line of danger without thinking about your own safety, but plenty of us are more sensible than that. We need a full backup unit, Harry.”

Harry shakes his head mutely and Draco feels frustration well up in him. But then Harry looks back up and his eyes are bleak. “Think, Draco,” he says, low and urgent. “Think what we’d be opening up if people knew about what they could do.”

Draco draws back, revolted. “They wouldn’t want to,” he says.

“Maybe not _them_. But what about the one who hears about it, through the friend of a friend? What about the wife who has a generational blood curse, or the brother who thinks his life was just not quite good enough and wants the chance to do it over once he’s gone? What about those people like T-Tom Riddle,” he says, voice shaking in a way it hadn’t on the night he took down the Dark Lord and called him by his given name. “Those people who just want power and don’t know how else to get it?”

“It’s splitting your _soul_!” Draco hisses, taking another step back, then another.

“Exactly!” Harry stalks closer to him, catching Draco’s biceps in his hands, halting his escape from the discussion. He gives Draco a little shake, eyes angry and hard. “There’s a _reason_ people don’t talk about this, Draco. Do you know how long it took Riddle to find out the key? Neither do I. He read something in a book, which led him to a teacher, which led him to one thing after another. By then he had followers and _worshippers_ to help him, and _yes,_ maybe it can’t be done without this thing they’re selling, but do we really want to advertise it _either way?_ ” 

He breaks off, chest heaving, and Draco stands stock-still, eyes glued to his face.

“Why do you think no one talks about it?” Harry says again, gulping in a bit of air. “It’s because there’s always someone who wants to _know!_ ”

Draco doesn’t know how he can suddenly feel so calm; not with his heart racing like this. But Harry’s furious argument makes sense, no matter how it was presented.

There wasn’t a Lord Voldemort, once.

And then there was. And was again.

Draco gives a clipped nod. Harry doesn’t seem to see it, his eyes fixed on something through or past Draco, so Draco catches his forearm; it flexes under his grip. He nods again when Harry seems to come back. “Alright, we’re on our own. I reserve the right to call for back-up if one of us is dying, but until then we’ll work with the team here and Obliviate anything they might overhear; apparently we’re allowed to do whatever we want with them,” he adds with a small smirk. “And in the meantime, we’ll do whatever we can do to make it to that meet.”

Harry’s shoulders, hunched high toward his ears, come down a little. He searches Draco’s face. “It would be safer for you if you left.”

“I could say the same thing to you, but why should we start listening to each other _now?_ ” Draco asks dryly, and Potter sputters a laugh. Draco grins, scared and pleased all at once. “We should go to the hot springs. Perhaps paranoia has weighed too heavily in this conversation; I didn’t notice anyone listed on the tennis courts or by the pools, but they could be at the springs or even on the hiking trails, though the bugs must be awful with your cock out,” he adds with a grimace. “Whoever picked this place _must_ be truly evil, because honestly.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “We need to scout more of the location, anyway. And be seen in public together. And the bugs are clearing out today. The storm is going to break, soon.”

***

The hot springs are just as they were the previous day—slightly warmer but no less muggy, even in the shade. A heavy steam wafts out of each of the dozen or so large, sunken stone bowls in the earth, where water churns gently from the forces beneath. Where normally hot springs tend to give off the strong sulfuric odour of minerals, these are different and emit the heavy scent of pine needles, of wet clay, as if the waters themselves draw power from the forest they are secreted away in. Draco wrinkles his nose as he and Harry walk up the path, hand-in-hand, but accustoms himself to the smell quickly; it’s not unpleasant, just… slightly overwhelming, at first.

The area _feels_ the same, as well. His Mark stirs as if to acknowledge the magic floating around them, thick as dust motes in an aging home. But then it softens and rests again, going so still on his forearm it almost feels as though it’s not there. It’s unnerving. And a relief.

The hot springs are as crowded as any place at the resort has been. Draco recognises several people he’s shared short conversations with in the previous two days and they acknowledge him with a friendly wave or a “Hi, Daniel!” in the way he is coming to learn is typical with such a community. And despite what he said back in their room, Draco finds that Alice _was_ right; he notices his own nudity less when surrounded by other people who don’t seem to give a damn about it, one way or another.

“Over here?” Harry says quietly; pointing off in the direction of a small pool in what looks to be a cool-water section—there is no steam issuing from it—that would fit only two or three. 

Draco’s mouth curls up. “You think we’ll be able to ask many questions, isolated like that? Planning on calling them across the dirt paths, then?”

Harry stops in place and slants a sideways look at him. His taut, angry jawline has softened; his face is loose with an easy smile. “I was suggesting that spot for casting, _after_ we talk to a few people,” he snorts.

“Sure you were,” Draco says, raising a single eyebrow and watching with satisfaction as Harry’s green gaze flickers to it, as his cheeks bloom with a sudden flush that has nothing to do with the steam or the thick humidity that has gotten worse, even, since they left the lodge’s blissful air-conditioning. 

“Don’t,” Harry warns under his breath, leading Draco over to a hot spring with two other people that, just barely, looks as though it will have room for two more. Properly chastened—less by Harry’s tone than the distracting surge of desire to his own cock—Draco shuts up and tries to look friendly and harmless as Harry smiles down at the people in the spring. “Do you mind if we join you?”

“No, of course!” The older gentleman waves them in, then leans his head back against the lip of the warmed stone, which curves out naturally and breaks off in the dirt, like the spots were carved out with the comfort of humans in mind.

 _This place_ is the sort of thing the Unspeakables should be investigating, rather than how to utilise some sort of soul-carving stone. Draco determines to bring it up with Granger—if they make it out of here alive.

Draco eases in first, dipping down into the overheated water with a hiss of discomfort. 

“Just like being in a sauna,” the man assures him cheerfully. “I’m Wally.”

Draco nods dutifully, though his muggle knowledge doesn’t extend _that_ far. However, being half-submerged in the hot spring is a bit like being in a steam bath, so it’s not half bad once his skin grows used to the temperature.

Harry slips in beside him, eyes widening. “I’m Harry, this is my husband Daniel. Wow, when they said hot springs, they really meant it, didn’t they?”

“Our hot springs are some of the best in the world,” the younger woman murmurs. Draco recognises her as one of the lodge employees, and she smiles as though she knows what he’s thinking. “It’s one of the reasons I took this job; wonderful pay, and I can use the amenities on my days off.”

“Must be lovely,” Draco puts in. He scans her as gently as he can, and Wally too. Neither of them give off any sort of magical signature, and their minds—so relaxed from the heat of the water and in tune with the energy of the area—are open and at ease. 

Harry leans pressed against him in the water, the coarse hair of his upper thigh brushing Draco’s own. He puts a hand on Draco’s knee under the water; squeezes as if to ask what Draco saw. Draco shakes his head, silently marvelling at the nonverbal way they can communicate with each other. He’s a little curious if he has a particular face he makes when he performs Legilimency. He’ll ask another time.

Harry hooks his foot over Draco’s and presses it so that Draco’s toes are pointing at the employee. Draco nods, ignoring the flash of heat that tears through him at Harry’s casual touch under the water. He looks at the employee. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Sarah,” she says with a smile, sounding a bit groggy. 

“I don’t suppose you know—Forgive me,” he backtracks. “It’s your day off.”

“No, no.” She lifts a wet hand from the pool and waves it languidly. “Really, it’s fine. What did you want to know?”

“Well, there was a couple Harry and I made dinner plans with,” Draco explains. “But they were supposed to be here as well and it occurs to me we haven’t seen them all day. I was simply wondering if they may have had to check out early or something.”

“Alice and Alan,” Harry puts in. He removes his fogged glasses, folds them closed, and sets them down on the packed earth. “Yeah, love, I hadn’t thought about it—I don’t think they were out at the pool, either.”

“Oh, Alice!” The employee’s face warms. “We just love her; she and her husband have been coming here for years. No, they’re booked here for the whole month, like always. They never miss the nude badminton tournament, although last year Alan couldn’t participate because he’d had shoulder surgery.”

“The nude—” If Draco remembers correctly, badminton is basically flinging an uncharmed snitch at each other with handled nets. He falls silent, visions flashing in his mind of naked people jumping and dodging and lunging to catch the snitch while their breasts or cocks pop around in the breeze. He forces down the panic that threatens and smiles genially. “What fun.”

Harry coughs a laugh. “When is it?” he asks, wide-eyed. “Daniel was quite the athlete; perhaps we could join.”

“Oh, it’s not until the sports festivities in the last week,” she tells them. “You’re only booked for one, right? Though perhaps we could give you a discount if you extend your stay; there are always a lot of spectators and never enough participants. Particularly for the three-legged race.”

“The three-legged race?” Draco echoes, feeling faint. He can’t—doesn’t _want_ to—imagine what that is.

“Oh, I always take part in that,” Wally puts in. “I came alone, though, so they have to set me up with someone else. It’d be nice to be able to pick my own partner for once. Would either of you be sitting it out?” He eyes them both speculatively.

Draco’s ears burn. Does the man not understand that they’re supposed to be _married?_ He’s not really sure how to respond; should he flirt, or show outrage?

“I’m afraid we’d just end up doing it together,” Harry says, eyes glinting at Draco mischievously. Draco sighs in relief. “Besides,” Harry continues, “I don’t think we can stay for another two weeks; we both have business to attend to at home.”

“Where’s that?”

They settle into a chat about London versus Glasgow, about their respective jobs, and then the sweltering heat that’s making everyone so on-edge before the employee excuses herself, followed shortly by Wally. “Don’t stay in here too long,” he advises, “a bit is great for you, but a few years back someone fell asleep and—it wasn’t good.”

They promise to be careful and wave him off with a smile, then Harry turns to Draco to look at him fully. “Do our files mention on-sight deaths in the last few years?”

“Just the last twelve months; there haven’t been any. But it’s probably unconnected, Harry,” he says, hushed. “Those things happen.”

Harry seems unconvinced, but he nods. Then, with a smile, “We still have to move to the cooler pools; they’re not as crowded, and we need to do some checks.”

“I’m done here,” Draco says. He feels a bit like a boiled lobster, and suspects he looks like one, too. But Harry just gives him a fond, lopsided smile when he helps Draco out of the water. Draco’s cock feels embarrassingly soft, but at least the heat hasn’t done anything to misrepresent its appearance. He grabs Harry’s glasses and they walk over to the mostly-empty pools, picking the smallest one, that Harry had pointed to before.

Slipping into _this_ water feels absolutely heavenly, and Draco lets out a whimper of gladness as he sinks as deep as he can get. His burning skin soothes immediately in the cool, clear water, and he looks down to see the dark grey bottom of the rock-cut basin, made smooth from years of rain and underground runoff currents and perhaps the bit of magic flowing around them, as well.

Harry sits across from him and lays his arms up as though reclining against the lip of the pool; Draco mimics him and twitches his wrist just enough that his wand can be cradled by his palm. “How far is your reach?”

Rolling his eyes up to the shadow of trees above, Harry cracks a disbelieving laugh. “It’s, um, pretty fucking far, Malfoy. I thought you might have gathered that, considering—” He twiddles his fingers subtly and the path that leads deeper into the forest, about thirty metres away, clears slowly of the pine needles obscuring it.

“Oh. Right.” Flustered at having forgotten—although really, how often is one _supposed_ to remember that they’re in the presence of the Master of Death (whatever that means, really)—Draco bites his lip for a moment. “Well, then you incant as far out as you can, coming in, and I’ll start here in the centre. Revealing charms, first; check for anything dangerous, right?”

“Right, sounds good.”

They work in easy tandem, not unlike their conversations on those pub nights after a case—not unlike the way their sexual chemistry found its own immediate rhythm. Draco begins small, keeping his charms quiet and contained; Harry, as always, is a bit more brash with his use of power, and Draco can see the trees ruffle around them as Harry’s magic sweeps against them.

Draco widens his search in concentric circles and can’t find anything beyond the sweet, sparking response of renewable forces in the magic. There is nothing threatening here; no curses or spells or traps. But a niggle of fear threads through him at how responsive the magic is to his casting; he feels a zip of—of _appreciation_ , as though the land has been waiting to be harnessed, every time he sends a beacon of new magic from his wand. It unsettles him down to his core, what people—wizards and Muggles alike—might to do this place, given the opportunity.

Harry has been narrowing his search steadily, and they conclude when their spells connect with one another. For a long moment they lock eyes and lust pours through Draco, stiffening his cock in a bare second. Harry’s throat works silently for a moment, then his hand relaxes, curling into a loose fist, and that erratic pulse of connected magic untangles. Draco exhales a deep breath he hadn’t been aware of holding.

Not looking at him, voice velvet and low, Harry says, “I found nothing. Protective charms now. Same pattern?”

Draco nods, though Harry’s eyes are studiously fastened on something to his left. He begins without waiting for Harry, throwing up protective charms in layer after layer until he can almost see them as a fine, glowing mist in the air already so saturated with the steam of healing waters and the humidity of the coming storm. He casts every protective charm he can think of after the strongest and most broad have been used, up to and including skin charms to protect against the sun, hidden beyond the leaves.

Again, they stop when their magic clashes against the other’s. It spikes sharply through Draco, everything he’s ever learned of desire and seduction; all of the truths he’s ever held dear. The magic mingles, slowly, when they don’t end the casting right away, and Draco shudders with the force of it, with the way he can _feel_ past Harry’s Occlumency shields, can feel Harry’s want and fear and conflicted need for contact burn against him.

Harry makes a small, lamenting noise when it happens. His lips are parted, his hairline dotted with moisture. His eyes are greener than the forest around him, and Draco’s cock juts away from his body at the look Harry gives him. 

“We shouldn’t,” Harry whispers. “We can’t. Not now.”

“I know.”

But they get out of the water silently, grabbing their towels and wrapping them swiftly around their waists. Draco spares one look for the people remaining at the hot springs, who are too engaged with each other and the soft sprinkles of rain starting to hush down to notice them, before allowing Harry to tug him deeper into the forest.

They walk in silence for a few minutes, and Draco realises where they’re both heading—where they’re being _called._ The land can feel the way their magic ignites when it comes in contact. It wants more.

They make it to the copse of trees with the clearing outside the property line, so like the mysterious places ancient runes were once made. The rain has turned steady and Draco vaguely hears the heavy rumble of thunder; the sky has gone completely grey. 

There is nothing sensual about the hard heat in Harry’s voice when he says Draco’s name; it comes out sounding coarse and ugly, and if Draco didn’t know what their magic felt like—what _Harry_ felt like—he would perhaps recoil away in disgust. Instead, he shuffles closer, putting his hand flat over Harry’s chest. He doesn’t mean to, but he covers the brand on Harry’s skin, which feels hot against his palm.

He is not surprised when he says Harry’s name and it comes out sounding just as raw and unpleasant. But it feels like ambrosia on his lips, which Harry immediately covers with his own.

The kiss is sharp and urgent, all teeth and fighting tongues. Draco sucks Harry’s into his mouth, letting his teeth scrape over it; he bites at Harry’s swollen lips, tasting rainwater. Then he sweeps his own tongue into Harry’s mouth where it receives the same treatment, and Draco groans loudly, hands shoved into Harry’s hair. He yanks Harry’s head back, bares his own neck and pulls Harry’s mouth to it; the stubble on Harry’s jaw is rough over Draco’s skin but it’s not enough, not until Harry bites down and sucks a mouthful of flesh between his teeth, tongue lashing over it. Draco can hear the loud, demanding cries tearing from his throat; he can feel the mottled bruises blooming on it.

Harry’s hands grab roughly at Draco’s wet skin and Draco arches into him; their cocks graze each other, then press, as Harry pulls him painfully tight, grabbing handfuls of Draco’s arse cheeks to open and close them. His teeth rake over Draco’s collarbone, across his neck, pausing every few seconds to mark him. He says something gutturally, then he is sliding two stiff, slickened fingers into Draco’s entrance, twisting them as he inches them deeper.

Draco hisses, “Yes, fuck.” He slings his leg up around Harry’s hip, wobbling on one foot until Harry’s hands steady him. Their cocks grind together like this, trapped between their bodies, and it gives Harry’s fingers better access. Draco’s head falls back, mouth opening on a sharp cry as Harry begins fucking deeply into him with two fingers, bringing them out to the tips and then stabbing them deep. Draco’s hips work, rolling in time with Harry’s movements; he’s still a little loose from their last session several hours prior, but the discomfort of Harry’s ruthless pace is just what he wants. “Do it, fuck me, I need your cock.”

“Jesus, Malfoy.” Harry raises his head. The scenery no longer competes with the colour of his eyes, which have gone black and so focused Draco has the wild thought that Harry can’t see anything but him. On the next slide in, he adds another finger, and Draco’s arse burns from the pressure but he nods frantically, rain falling from his soaking hair. Harry breathes, “My cock is so fucking hard for you.”

“I know, I know, I feel it,” Draco babbles, fucking himself on Harry’s fingers, rubbing his aching erection over Harry’s cock. “Just do it, just put it in me.”

With a low growl, Harry stalks him backward, fingers gone still inside of Draco’s channel. Draco clings to his shoulders, his leg falling from around Harry’s hips until his back hits moist tree bark. Then Harry pulls his fingers out and grasps his hips, whipping him around. Draco flattens his hands against the trunk of the tree, the feel of the rough wood anchoring him in place as Harry tugs his hips back and kicks his stance wide.

Draco feels the blunt, spongy head of Harry’s cock circle his rim; he gasps and backs into it. “ _Please!_ ”

Harry holds him in place with one hand, finger pressing one arse cheek open, and guides his slippery cock to Draco’s stretched entrance. He pushes inside with a grunt and a “ _Yes,_ ” and then he slides deeper, faster, embedding the full length of his swollen prick inside Draco with a hoarse groan.

“This is how I want you, Draco,” he mutters, pulling out halfway and slamming home again. He slides a hand over Draco’s back and does it again as Draco presses against the tree and cants his arse up. “If you get to— fucking _say_ those things, and _see_ those things, then I get to—”

Harry sounds furious, his words deep and vicious, punctuated by each ferocious pump of his hips. They don’t make sense—nothing does but the burning delicious stretch of Draco’s arse as it widens to accept each slide from Harry’s cock. Harry pants, palming his arse cheeks wide, and Draco feels the rain pick up, stinging his skin with harsh, warm droplets as the wind begins to get aggressive.

“Watch it,” Draco gasps out, “Watch yourself fuck into me, watch yourself go in.”

“I’m— _ah!_ —watching you take it, you fucking take _all of me,_ you bastard, everything you think you want,” Harry growls. Harry’s hand finds his hair and he grips a fistful of it, yanking Draco’s head back as he rides him. He saws his hips back and forth and the obscene, wet sound of his balls slapping against Draco’s arse, of his cock plunging deep, is faint but hypnotic against the sound of the storm’s torrent. Draco feels split wide open, tender and sore and overstimulated by too much sex; his cock throbs, smacking rigidly into his belly every time Harry pounds in. Draco lets his head drop forward between his outstretched arms and watches it; it’s near-purple at the tip, the shaft flushed deep pink.

There is nothing light, nothing playful about this. They aren’t learning each other anymore; this is about testing their limits, and Draco doesn’t know for what. But Harry plows into him ceaselessly, so Draco clenches his arsehole on every third thrust, digging his fingers into the peeling bark of the tree trunk to stay in place. The ground grows damp beneath him and he adjusts his stance, planting his feet firmly again just as Harry whips his hips down, angling his cock for a deep press against Draco’s prostate. Draco grits out, “Harry—”

“Say it,” Harry orders him, whipping his hips faster, but it sounds more like a plea. Draco can feel the ridge of his crown, can feel the way his cock jerks inside him. He’s used too little lube and it’s wearing off, but Draco can’t bring himself to care.

“I’m—I’m full,” Draco manages. His eyes sting from the rain dripping from his hair. From something else, maybe. He whimpers at another hard stroke. “I’m full of your cock, full of you, fucking all of you, fuck, Potter—”

Harry’s free hand grips his shoulder, fingers digging into the meat of it, half-draping himself over Draco’s back as his thrusts get erratic and less focussed. His leans forward for a split second and licks the dip of Draco’s spine. “No,” he says breathlessly, voice thick with restraint, “No, tell me how you—”

Draco doesn’t know where the words come from, but they tear from his lungs of their own accord. “I _know_ you, Potter, keep fucking me, harder, you prick—I know you, oh sweet Merlin _fuck_ Harry, I’m going to come—”

But then Harry plunges deep and stays, continuing to rock his hips but keeping the two of them firmly pressed together so that Draco’s arse follows him with every minute movement. Draco’s throat arches; his scalp stings under Harry’s clenching hand. He feels the hot spill of semen inside of him, hears Harry’s loud cry of release as his cock slickens Draco’s passage anew, and the friction is just right. Draco grunts loudly; his orgasm hits him like the storm came, with no build or warning. His cock pulses hard, bouncing at each frantic, connected roll they make and he comes, eyes on his spunk as it hits the wet grass in long ropes. 

After what feels like years, Harry’s hold on his shoulder softens; his fingers loosen from Draco’s hair. Draco feels battered and bruised inside and out, as if the force of Harry’s need—of his own—has reshaped him into something strange and out of place, like those stone bowls in the earth.

Harry slips out of him and Draco staggers up. His thighs hurt; his arse feels swollen, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to get away without a healing charm this time, but he feels oddly energised, all of his previous exhaustion from two nights of little sleep gone. He pushes off the tree and shoves his wet hair out of his face, then leans his back against the trunk with a wince.

Harry is still breathing heavily. His raven hair is sopping wet, clinging to his forehead and temples. His eyes catch Draco’s, then move away, looking around. “It’s going to be here,” Harry says, panting a bit.

“Yeah.”

“It’s hungry for magic.” Harry gazes at the clearing. “Even just our presence… It wanted us. We could do a lot of things here.”

“We just did,” Draco says wryly. The splotchy pink blush is fading from Harry’s chest, from his throat.

Harry wanders toward the middle of the clearing. Draco stays put; he’s too sore to do much more than hobble after him, anyway, not that he’s inclined to. Harry waves his hand, fingers coaxing his magic forth. Draco hears the low murmur of his incantations as he walks around and investigates; lovely though the sight of Harry is, walking naked in the warm downpour, Draco stops watching him after a moment to keep a lookout around them, lest some stray Muggle decides to investigate the noisy sounds of fucking they’d been making. The rain eases off slowly, leaving the air cool and fresh and clean.

A few minutes go by and Harry finally approaches him again. He’s found his glasses—where, Draco doesn’t know; he must’ve dropped them somewhere—and looks more like himself, but for his similarity to a wet Crup. Apropos of nothing, he says, “I’d like to go out to dinner with you when we get back.”

“Oh?”

Draco wishes, the second the word slips out, that he’d said it with aplomb. But it comes out startled, instead; dumb with surprise. _Fucking **oh?**_ Draco chides himself, mind still working to catch up. He blurts, “Did you find anything?”

Which is not much better.

Harry shakes his head as if to say, ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He steps closer. Draco can smell the musk of his sweat, can sense the energy of the magic coursing through him, radiantly savage. It practically snaps off his skin and from his eyes. Draco finally understands what Shacklebolt meant, about how they complement each other.

“Will you?”

“Will I—?” Draco blinks, not bothering to humour Harry’s madness with a placating smile. “Are you stupid?”

It’s Harry’s turn to blink. “No?”

“Will I _go out_ with you?”

“A proper date. Several, I think,” Harry says, nodding. “Yes.”

Draco snorts. “I’m sorry,” he says a touch snidely, “which part of ‘fuck me harder, Harry,’ made you feel like I might deny you a meal? But I swear to Salazar, Potter, if we get out of here and find out that what we just did here bonded us into matrimony or something, I’m going to be a widower exremely fast. Fair warning.”

Harry rolls his eyes; takes Draco’s hand. “Couldn’t we just divorce and then date?”

“God, you’re such a Muggle-born,” Draco huffs. He pulls his hand away and gestures irritably. Asks again, more pointedly, “Did you _find_ anything?”

“No. But it’ll be here,” Harry says, and Draco knows it’s true. He’d thought the hot springs, but this place is too greedy to be used, to give back—it doesn’t matter what kind of magic it’ll be used for.

“I know. Heal my arse,” Draco tells him distractedly. Harry’s mouth quirks; he places a hand on Draco’s waist, turning him. Runs his fingers over Draco’s crease; the ache in his arse lessens, mostly vanishes, and Draco clenches experimentally, pleased to discover that Harry added a cleaning charm. “Thank you. We haven’t gotten any kind of Summons yet.”

“No. Anytime after dinner.”

Draco hesitates. “We should find a way to send Granger something. In case—”

“ _No_ ,” Harry says implacably. “I can’t risk her again. I won’t. Or Ron. And we’ve already talked about others.”

“And you won’t tell me why not them, right?” Draco asks.

“Right.”

“But we’re dating?” he checks ironically.

“Right,” Harry says again.

“Fine.” Draco sighs, shrugging. “Let’s go back to our room; I’m not eating in my pants again.”

“You had no trouble with it, this morning,” Harry says, taking his hand as they walk out of the clearing.

Draco looks down at their linked fingers in surprise. In spite of what just happened, and Harry’s assumption that they might be able to begin some sort of relationship away from here—in spite of how Draco’s ridiculous heart feels inexorably wrapped up in the idea of it—he can’t quite believe the gentle intimacy of the gesture.

While no one they know is around to see, at least.

They make their way past the hot springs. Only a few people have remained in the wake of the storm, and only one of those gives them a knowing look. Draco smiles sheepishly at her, then rolls his eyes at Harry’s beaming grin as they continue on to their room. 

He waits in the hallway, wishing it would have been remotely believable to come in from outside dry. But with their towels soaked and the rainfall, he has to suffer, shivering, in the blast of air-conditioning. “Nine warming charms,” he mumbles as Harry lifts the key card corded around his wrist with one of those funny coiled bands. “Dry me the fuck off and then I want nine of your best warming charms.”

Harry smirks. “I’d offer to just— _warm_ you,” he says as they step inside. “But we really do have to make an appearance at dinner.”

“I’ll show you warm,” he grumbles, then immediately imagines Harry’s arse turning pink and hot under the smack of his palm, and shivers for an entirely different reason.

Distracted by the thought, he turns to shut the door when it comes crashing in against him. His face aches from where the edge of it cracked into his forehead, but Draco automatically twitches his wrist to release his wand, fingers sliding over the smooth wood before some odd sensation overcomes him and he realises he can’t move his hand. He’s been hit with some sort of modified _Immobulus_ , he realises in horror, eyes seeking Harry’s, who has frozen in place with his hand outstretched.

“Alright,” the man behind him grumbles, shoving Draco away from him. “Go stand with him.”

“I’ll kill you,” Harry says, low.

Draco straightens at Harry’s side. His head hurts and he’s not a little pissed off at having gotten injured for the second time in twenty-four hours, but even more so when he realises it’s Tom the Businessman smirking at the two of them.

“I don’t think you will, Mister Matthews. After all, I have something you want.” Tom flicks his wand and summons the glowing image of a small blue stone, letting it hover in the air for a moment before dissipating.

“Which I was planning on bidding on, tonight,” Harry clips out. His hands are fisted; his muscles tensed. Draco evaluates the situation; two against one would be no problem, even with his right hand immobile. Hell, Harry could Disarm the idiot in a split second— _he_ hasn’t been immobilised at all. But Tom isn’t stupid enough to have hidden the stone on his person; he’s at least smart enough to get past the Legilimency Draco used on him, and they need that fucking rock. At least the Obliviate from their visit to him seems to be holding.

“Of course you were,” Tom says smoothly. “Unfortunately, despite your impressive bank account, I need a little extra insurance. Your wands, please.”

Draco snarls; the tip of his wand is frozen in his hand, but just the thought of relinquishing it makes him want to hex the man. 

“I don’t think so,” Harry says carefully. Draco glances at him. “What’s _our_ insurance that we won’t be harmed?”

“Gold transfers can’t be made if they’re coerced,” Tom says. “You should know that. If you sign away your gold, the bank parchment will scan for authenticity.”

“And if I lose the bid?” Harry asks.

“You’ll receive back anything I’ve taken, with my apologies,” Tom says with a sweeping bow. Draco narrows his eyes, casting his mind out slowly, like a whisper. He can’t sense a surface lie, but Tom’s mental shields are suddenly like a fortress. He continues, “After all, I have a bid coming up in a few months for another item. It’s different, but powerful. It wouldn’t do to offend those few who might be interested, and who are also wealthy enough to afford it.”

The look in his eyes is sly and greedy. It’s a look Draco grew up seeing in his father’s face; a look he has seen in the mirror. He doesn’t think Tom is lying, but he can sense his burning impatience, which is making him twitchy. His dark eyes study the two of them too warily to be arrogant, but too arrogantly to ensure their safety.

“My wand,” Draco says shortly between clenched teeth. He holds out his hand, showcasing where it’s been frozen. At least this way, if he hands it over, he won’t have been Disarmed. 

Tom’s shoulders come down a bit. “Why, thank you!” He casts his own and releases Draco’s hand. Draco slips his wand free of its holster and passes it to him. Tom turns to Harry with an expectant face.

“I don’t—” Harry falls silent, mouth pressed so tightly the edges have gone white. “It’s in my bag. We only brought one holster.”

“I’ll wait,” Tom says with a genial smile. “I’ll keep my wand trained on Daniel, how’s that. In case you get any ideas.”

Harry’s glower has gone so deep, Draco thinks it’s rather a miracle that Tom hasn’t already spontaneously combusted from it. He heads over to his bag and draws out his holly wand, stroking over it with his forefinger. He points it at Draco, casts a series of drying and warming charms over his skin before he can even blink, then holds it out to Tom.

“That wasn’t smart,” Tom remarks mildly, but takes the wand with a tip of his head.

“I promised him some warming charms,” Harry mutters, moving back to his side. Draco takes Harry’s hand to steady him. To steady himself against the way his knees went weak when Harry’s magic washed over him, simple and lovely, moreso for the statement it made.

“How sweet.” It doesn’t even sound snide. Tom chuckles a little, slipping their wands into the pouch around his neck; it must have an invisible extension charm. “You keep your promises. That’s good to know. You know, you may actually be the winning bidder, after all, in that case. You should promise him he’ll be fine, now.”

“What?” Harry growls.

“Well, as I said, I like insurance.” Tom raises his eyebrows, points his wand at Draco. Harry tenses beside him as Tom goes on. “And if you’re the winner, you won’t have to worry about anything happening to him.”

“I thought you said you’d give back whatever you took,” Draco interjects coldly.

“And indeed, I will. I can promise your wands will come to no harm. And I can promise you’ll return to your husband, if he wins. Even if he doesn’t, actually, though in that case I can’t promise the _state_ you’ll return in,” Tom says. “So if you’ll come with me, now.”

Draco can feel it, the restless shift of Harry’s energy next to him. The build of power that skitters over his skin; he’s too used to the feeling, now, to ever mistake it for anything else—he’s been studying Harry for near-fifteen years, would know that snapping anger anywhere. But they have hidden advantages in that Tom doesn’t remember talking to them, doesn’t realise that they know what, exactly, is being sold. That Harry’s wandless magic is still a secret is something Draco doesn’t want to give up. He squeezes Harry’s palm.

“I’ll go,” he says, keeping his voice soft while glaring at Tom, who looks amused. “Win the bid. We need it, right? We need it, so win it and it’ll be fine. We have two whole vaults we didn’t even bother using for verification; it’s not as if he can lose us as potential clients,” he says, then scowls at Tom’s nod. “And it’s not as if he’ll attempt something like this again, right?”

“What would be the point?” Tom agrees. “This is a bit of an extreme circumstance, as you can imagine. Eternal life? This is a one-time-only kidnapping, I assure you.”

“Harry,” Draco says. Harry rotates his head like it pains him to take his eyes off Tom, and drags his gaze to Draco’s. “I’ll be fine. Do what we said, and I’ll be fine.” His mouth goes firm; he arches an eyebrow. “I can take care of myself.”

Harry looks at him for a long moment. He releases a shuddering breath, then gives a jerky nod. Draco has to tug his hand out of Harry’s, but Harry finally loosens his grip and allows Draco to step over to Tom’s side.

“Brilliant,” Tom says, pleased. “This will all run smoothly now, I guarantee it.” He slides an arm around Draco’s waist, pulling him too close, and Draco stands rigidly as Harry takes a step forward, then halts himself.

 

Draco draws upon every ounce of Malfoy within him, haughtily looking down his nose at the fucker holding him too tight. “May I at least put on some pants before we go?”

Tom laughs. “No.”

He Apparates them.

***

The first thing Draco becomes aware of is a soft hand, patting frantically at his face. Then the ringing in his ears dims a bit, and the world snaps into place. “Daniel?” It’s a hissed whisper. “ _Daniel! Are you okay?_ ”

“Stop—stop slapping me,” Draco snaps weakly, opening his eyes and heaving himself up. The world spins for a moment; his Mark writhes ceaselessly, connecting uncomfortably to the Dark Magic burning through their surroundings. Alice crouches off to the side, looking anxious; there’s a hex-welt on her temple. “Alice? Where are we?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers, crawling backward. Draco takes a moment, letting his head clear, before looking around.

They’re in a… cage. Glowing blue bars surround them as they hang, suspended a half-dozen meters in the air in the middle of the clearing. The sun has already set, but light is coming from somewhere. Seven other people are slumped, unconscious, at the far end of the rectangular box, and yet another shifts, awake, off to his right. Draco touches the pendant around his neck several times and when nothing happens, he looks over.

It’s Tom.

Draco opens his mouth, then shuts it again and peeks down through the bars. He sees a group assembling beneath them, quietly taking their places in folding chairs. They’re surrounded by—of all things—strings of fairy lights, as if people are in attendance for a wedding or some such nonsense. Another Businessman Tom is standing with Liz’s husband, Roger, at the head of the group. Merlin, they’ve actually procured a _podium_ for this. Arseholes.

And then Draco notices three of the undercover Aurors they’ve interacted with. They’re positioned around the adapted stage, standing rigidly in place. Their eyes are perfectly blank, their wands held firmly at their sides. He glances at Roger again; remembers what Liz had said about the potion. He just has to hope none of them have revealed anything about the two of them.

Fuck it.

“Harry,” he calls down loudly, spotting him. Harry looks up. His jaw is tight.

“You’re doing alright, Daniel?” he calls back, almost formally.

“Just stuffed up here with nine other people,” Draco relays, aggravation rich in his tone. Harry nods; he’s gotten it. “And one of them has been Polyjuiced to look like the runner of the event,” he adds.

The Tom on the ground, listening to their exchange—for all Draco cares—grins. “It’ll wear off soon enough. Please keep it down, we’ll be starting soon,” he says to both of them, then goes back to talking quietly to Roger.

Harry, slightly lower, calls back, “There’s a field around you, or I’d come closer so we could talk. But it won’t let me in.”

“I’m fine,” Draco tells him. He looks back. “Several of us haven’t woken up.”

“As long as _you’re_ okay,” Harry says, which Draco interprets as _do something about it_.

It’s harder than it should be to pull his eyes off of Harry, but Draco peels himself away from the bars and heads over to the unconscious people, one of whom turns out to be the missing bartender. He hasn’t mastered much wandless magic, but a few spells are required for Aurors, and fortunately, one of them is a reviving spell. “ _Rennervate!_ ” he mutters, then again when nothing happens. 

He can feel the magic collecting at his fingertips, but it goes sluggish when he releases it, as if absorbing into the atmosphere. He looks at the bars—magic dampeners, then. 

Alice has huddled in the corner, arms wrapped around her shins. “Alan, Alan isn’t here,” she says fearfully when Draco catches her eyes.

Draco crawls back over to her. “We’ll find him, pet. I’m sure he’s fine, okay? Do you remember what happened?”

She shakes her head. “No. We’d gotten back from dinner when… The first thing I remember is waking up, here.”

“I’m not supposed to be here,” Tom blurts out, finding his voice.

Draco sneers at him. “And this was the exactly the holiday _we’d_ booked.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Tom says, voice getting louder. “I was here to get paid for something, and now I’m in a cage. I’m in a _cage!_ What are they going to do to us? I’m _not supposed to be here!_ ”

“Fucking hell, pull yourself together,” Draco sneers. He hates people sometimes, he really does. Alice reaches out timidly; she grazes his bare knee with her fingertips. Draco looks at her, softening a bit. “Yes?”

“What can I do?”

“I’m, uhm, working on it.” He pats her hand. “Perhaps try the slapping thing on those people? That might be useful, if we have to run at some point,” he says. He pauses as something occurs to him. “Are you a witch?”

“I beg your pardon?” She manages to look affronted, naked and curled up in the floating cage though she is.

Draco examines her; her outrage is real. How the term ‘witch’ ever got twisted into an insult, he’ll never know—he’s certainly never heard someone call a man a ‘wizard,’ in a derogatory fashion. “Nothing,” he says, smiling a little. “Just, um, prepare yourself, alright?”

She studies him for a moment, then gives a short nod and crawls over to the people on the opposite side of the cage to begin whispering at them.

Draco heads back over to look out of the bars again. Harry is staring up at him, and Draco can even make out the green of his eyes, his gaze is so focused. He raises one eyebrow intermittently, giving tiny, leaning nods. Irritated, Draco indulges in copying him for a second just to show him how stupid he looks, but Harry purses his lips and widens his eyes significantly, then glances off to the left. Draco follows the look; he sees a floating twig and watches as it levitates toward the cage, beyond the field of vision of the organisers. It slips in through the bars and immediately drops to the floor; apparently, even Harry’s magic isn’t strong enough to sustain power inside the dampener.

Draco picks up the twig and inspects it, then turns back to Harry with a helpless shrug, surprised to see Harry’s look of relief. His eyes dart off again and Draco glances over; there’s a table where everyone’s wands have been stacked neatly, as though waiting to be passed back out. The bubble-like charm around it flickers and fades for a blink, then resumes, and Draco realises Harry has managed to sneak his wand out. He ventures a smirk as Harry subtly floats it into the cage. Some of the knots in his stomach loosen as Draco grabs for it before it falls to the floor.

Draco tries a couple of simple spells again, to revive the unconscious, but even with a wand it’s useless. 

“Excuse me?” he calls down again politely, louder when Tom doesn’t look up immediately. 

He finally does, overly-patient. “Yes?”

“Unfortunately—while I admit to not being the most adept at wandless magic—whatever dampeners you’ve put on our… accommodations… have made it impossible for me to revive those who aren’t awake,” Draco explains. “Which, given that I’m not sure if they’re Muggles or Wizards, could be a problem if they’ve been hexed.”

“They’re fine,” Tom says dismissively. “Shut up, please.”

Draco falls silent, checking with Harry, who nods again. He scurries to the opposite side of the cage, where the door is, facing the forest and—glancing back to make sure he’s hidden by the angle—sticks his arm out as far as it will go. It’s not ideal; his body is inside the cage and the magical core is usually considered to be centred somewhere within the brain or the torso or perhaps a combination of both— _yet **another** thing Unspeakables could do more research on,_ he thinks venomously—but he’d felt the magic from his _fingers_ before it had faltered, so it will have to do.

He flicks twists his hand back to face the door; his unlocking charm fizzles, but the dampener makes a soft, spritzing sound. Surprised, Draco tries again, and sees the glow on the bars darken a bit. A simple locking dampener, which would be easy enough to get rid of, given time, but there’s still the problem of how not to alert their captors, if the glow fades upon the charm’s dissipation.

Trying a combination of things—a brightly coloured _Lumos_ in conjunction with a sticking charm—Draco thinks he’s about got the right glow and tone when he hears Tom’s voice, magnified by a _Sonorus,_ calling out.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” he says. His tone is striving for gravitas but merely sounds smug and excited. “Thought I must apologise for the tactics I had to use on our less, shall we say, _willing_ bidders, I appreciate that you’ve all still taken the time to come out tonight.”

Draco snorts.

“While the object of tonight’s bid is desired by many,” Tom continues after the bidders have quieted down, “those who want it do not often have the resources and resolve to attain it. Tonight, you need only the resources.”

There is muffled laughter, and Draco glowers to himself. “Alice, how are things going?” he murmurs as he continues to cast.

“I—I don’t know. This one here is moving,” she whispers back. “That’s good, I think.”

“Very,” Draco agrees.

“Daniel?”

“Yes?” he asks breathlessly. If he could just reach his arm out a little further, he feels sure he’d be able to Summon the correct amount of magical force to cover the bars with the glow charm while simultaneously releasing the cage lock and dampener. 

“We’re floating, aren’t we? I’m not—” Alice pauses, sounding uncertain. “I’ve not gone senile?”

“No,” he grunts, trying to throw a smile her way. It feels like more of a wince, his shoulder shoved through the narrow bars as it is, but she merely nods. “You’re not senile.”

“Oh good,” she mutters. Her voice gets resolute. “Then you keep doing… something that looks magical, and I’ll do—this.”

“Yes, thanks,” he wheezes out, straining for the right amount of distance to get the right sort of angle. Draco listens with half an ear as Tom sells the product below without saying anything definitive about it, then pauses as his voice slowly begins to morph into something deeper and booming, like that of a barrel-chested man. He glances at the other Tom, who has remained silent and hunched into one corner as though he can pretend not to be there.

Draco leaves off the bars for a second to check out the other side of the cage. The body of the Tom below is shifting, Polyjuice wearing off, leaving a portly man with a hairline that could be only generously described as receding. Draco looks back at Alice just as she pauses, and the voice registers.

“ _Alan?_ ” she screeches, grabbing hold of the bars in both of her hands. Her face lights up with relief; then, as she watches the completion of her husband’s transformation into himself, darkens with a wrath that reminds Draco of some combination of his own mother, Molly Weasley during the last battle, his Aunt Bella, and even Harry.

He inches away from her, just in case she has any latent magical abilities.

“You _sonofabitch,_ I will _kill_ you for this!” she screams, trying to shake the immovable bars. She can’t, but Draco finds he really wouldn’t be surprised if she could. “After twenty-nine years and a child, supporting you when you got fired from that _middle-management_ job, taking care of you after _three surgeries_ and _those five years BEFORE YOU DISCOVERED VIAGRA!_ You complete _arsehole!_ if I ever get out of here I swear to _JESUS_ my face will be the last thing you ever see! What the _hell_ do you think you’re _doing?_ ”

Chest heaving, she sucks in a breath and glares downward. Draco stares at her for a moment, impressed beyond measure, before looking down as well. Alan’s face is ashen, a nervous smile falling from his mouth. His lips open and close like a gaping fish. “You won’t remember a thing, love!” he assures her, voice only slightly shaky. “I’ve managed to keep this from you quite well and I only really needed you as an example, so please—just settle down for a few minutes if you will?”

If possible, her furious brown eyes get even larger. “DID YOU JUST TELL ME TO _SETTLE—_ ”

“Of course not!” Alan says. “But if you’ll—be patient. This is really all for us, darling, so—”

Alice breathes loudly through her flaring nostrils and she attempts another vicious shake of the bars. “There are injured _people_ up here,” she hisses. “You’ve taken me _hostage_ and trapped me in some kind of a _magic cage_ and—”

Alan swallows visibly. He grabs a handkerchief from the podium and blots his shiny brow, addressing the guests. “My apologies. I’ll Silence the cage if I need to, but of course it’s always good to have examples, which is why I brought my beloved wife tonight.”

Draco touches Alice’s shoulder lightly before she can begin another rant. She turns to him with a sharp look. “Stop,” he tells her quietly. “If he sends up another spell, it could undo the progress I’ve made getting us out of this.”

She sucks in another lungful of air, looking mutinous, but gives him a short nod and grits her teeth. “I can’t look at him anyway,” she mutters, moving back over to the rest of the hostages. Her face is a mix of rage and grief but despite the amount of confusion and pain she must be in, she attends to those things she _can_ do, and Draco takes another second to admire her.

Below, Alan has lost a bit of the mystique and stature he was going for, but he gamely steps once more into his presentation. “Middle management, you said?” Draco murmurs to Alice, who makes a harrumph sort of sound under her breath.

“He kept trying for sales; they got all the good holiday incentive prizes,” she grumbles resentfully, “even though we’ve _always_ somehow made a good enough living to afford going on holiday in style, to put our daughter into the best schools.”

“The reason I brought her,” Alan says, bringing the point around after what Draco feels was an excessive amount of excuses, “was to show that not _only_ can eternal life be gained for oneself… It can be granted to someone else!” He finishes the sentence with a flourish, like an aspiring wireless host. 

Harry catches Draco’s eye again and Draco bites his lip. No matter how amusing some of this may be, Harry’s face seems carved out of stone, implacable as a mask, eyes steady on Alan as he talks.

Alan reaches into a bag at his hip and pulls out a luminescent stone. “I am aware that many of you have heard the term ‘Horcrux,’” he intones; Draco flinches, hearing it uttered so casually, and there is a loud intake of breath that seems to come from all of the bidders. Alan must be Muggle-born. He smiles. “There’s no need for that. Though the magic used to create them is Dark, and very powerful, splitting one’s soul will not automatically turn you into a Dark Wizard like the—well, we all know what happened several years ago,” he says, almost coyly.

“What happened a few years ago?” Alice whispers. Draco shakes his head. 

“You are all here because we’re like-minded; interested in self, rather than world-domination. The person—mind, I use that term loosely—who almost came into power did a very thorough job of erasing his tracks, but _I_ ,” he gloats, “am even _more_ thorough.”

He displays the stone, levitating it carefully as it spins before the group. Draco eyes it with trepidation. 

“And many of the parchments I used were written in the hand of—well, _You Know Who_ I mean,” he adds jokingly. When no one laughs, his smile grows a little pained. He clears his throat. “This can be verified if needed.”

Draco sucks in a breath. Harry’s face becomes even more impassive.

“As of this week, I have procured the last components necessary for harvesting more than one piece of your soul, and breaking someone _else’s_ to preserve, all with one sacrifice. With the spell, the sacrifice, the stone and the potion, one can easily transfer a bit of oneself into an object for rejuvenation,” Alan explains, growing more confident. “By the time you receive notification for my next auction, I will have worked out how to do that _before_ one’s demise.”

“Did he say sacrifice?” Alice whispers, horrified. Draco can’t blame her. “Are we _sacrifices?_ ”

As though Harry can hear her—hell, maybe he can; Draco wouldn’t put it past the wily bastard to have a charm close enough to the cage to hear them—he raises a hand. Alan’s eyebrows go up, thrown off his tempo, mid-spiel. “Yes, Mister Matthews?”

“Sacrifices?” Harry asks mildly. “I would rather not draw Auror attention to myself by abducting and sacrificing anyone.”

“No, no, discretion is very valuable,” Alan agrees gleefully. “Which is why I’ve brought you some.”

“We’re to do this here?” Harry asks evenly. “Tonight?”

“It will ensure your silence on the matter, should you change your mind down the road,” Alan says, frowning. “I believe I made clear the importance of insurance.”

“And who did you bring? Surely, we’re not supposed to harm the loved-ones you’re holding hostage.” Harry sits back in his folding chair, crossing one trousered leg over the other—of course _he_ gets to wear clothes to this—looking for all the world as though he’s having a discussion about his finances with a goblin at Gringotts.

“As I _said,_ ” Alan snaps, finally goaded, “it would be wise to be the winning bidder.” He pauses and clears his throat, composing himself. “Who will be allowed to choose between three sacrifices with no living ties, and a series of objects in which to place their Horcrux.” He smiles slyly. “And they may also pick between any of the hostages, excepting my wife, to use for that.”

“ _What?_ ” Harry barks, half standing. He halts himself, lowering back into the chair. 

Human Horcruxes. Draco’s heart jumps into his throat; revulsion crawls through him. If the Dark Lord had known he could do that, Draco doesn’t even want to imagine what would have happened. And for someone to be violated in such a way, hosting a murky, shattered piece of soul, is so unthinkable that—

Harry is shaking subtly; his face is flushed and his eyes are bright. Draco looks at him and for a long, long moment, everything goes quiet in his mind.

Gathering his wits, Draco calls down, “And what if the person hosting it dies? That doesn’t seem a very safe place to hold one’s soul…”

“Then the Horcrux will keep them animated, of course. The soul will alert its original owner so that it can be retrieved,” Alan says pompously. “Really, a live host is better than an object, because souls deteriorate without something living to latch on to. It may take a century, but it happens.”

“And we just get to… pick?” another wizard—the husband to one of the unconscious people in the cage, if Draco is correct—asks.

“That’s right!” Alan says cheerfully. “I will be demonstrating the spell with my wife once bidding is complete; I very much hope none of you objects to a partial Obliviation on the subject, should you lose the auction. Can’t have all my secrets creeping out,” he adds.

Harry inclines his head, as though he agrees. Draco wonders how no one else senses the waves of magic rolling off of him, practically visible in the cool night air, like the steam from the hot springs. 

“So now I’d like to introduce Roger, to begin the auction. Please have your parchment ready; gold will vanish from your account immediately upon winning the bid, as per the contract you all signed upon arrival,” Alan says. He waves at Roger, who looks anxious and wrings his hands a bit before approaching the podium. 

Roger begins the bid low, at fifty thousand galleons, and there is a muffled laugh from the crowd. On the next bid, he takes it up by another fifty, and Draco realises abruptly that he doesn’t have much time. He heads to the other side of the cage and shoves his arm through the bars, his temple pressed against them, and begins casting multiple spells at once.

Then, there’s a whisper in his mind, muted and clumsy. Harry’s voice. “What can I do?”

Draco shudders with fear at the risk Harry is taking. “Keep the bars glowing as I unlock,” he mutters under his breath, teeth gritted. 

“Give m— a s—nd,” Harry tells him, voice fading out, then resuming. He really is shit at any sort of Legilimency. “There’s a cha— around the c—ge that I can b—rly get through w—out al—ing them. Poin— your w— at the charm to keep it stea—y.”

“Hurry the bloody fuck up, then,” Draco hisses. He reaches as far as he can and focuses, finally picking up the faint shimmer of a shield around them. He points his wand and casts, feeling a dull, vibrating ripple when Harry’s magic bends it inward, then slices through it. The charm remains shimmery, and no sparkles or noises alert Roger or Alan, below. Draco lets out a breath; he bends his wrist and angles his wand at the lock of the cage. The bars stay lit even as he hears the sudden popping noise of the lock, and Draco’s stifled magic _bursts_ into his chest, startling him.

“Good?” comes Harry’s voice.

“Put your fucking Occlumency _back up_ ,” Draco orders. When there’s nothing else, Draco nods to himself. He doesn’t bother to open the cage door; there’s really no way they could make an escape yet without alerting everyone. But he turns to the other hostages and pushes Alice aside to cast gentle reviving charms on each of them. 

Four of them pull awake immediately, groaning and clutching their heads, but the other five take a few minutes; Draco has to heal the hex marks on their foreheads and throats before they come to. With the exception of Alice—who is perhaps the most collected person Draco has ever met, barring his mother—they all seem to be aware of the magical world.

“What—” A slender witch of about sixty years, wearing exercise shorts, folds her arms over her bare chest. She glares at Draco. “We were supposed to be part of that auction,” she declares, as though he’s to blame. 

“We _are,_ ,” he says disdainfully, wishing he hadn’t healed her headache. He tells her so, just to be spiteful, then heads back over to where he can view the proceedings. 

The galleon number has climbed to 4.3 million, and if it goes much higher, they’ll be forced to drop from the bid; the ministry has only put five into their account. But there are only five bidders left as he thinks it, then three, and suddenly it is between Harry and a witch of about thirty years old. She raises her parchment just as quickly as he does to drive the bid up, glaring daggers at him, but Harry continues to raise his parchment with a small, ferocious smile on his face.

At 4.9 million galleons, she growls, her hand dropping into her lap. Roger crows “Sold!” to Harry’s bid of 4.95 million and everyone freezes in their seats.

Alan takes the podium again. “Let’s bring our guests.” He smiles at Harry. “You didn’t seem particularly fond of the idea of using one of them for your Horcrux, but please; allow me to demonstrate with one of the sacrifices. I may also be able, for an additional fee, to allow you use of the host for your husband’s soul-fragment,” he says lightly as the charm—repaired under Harry’s deft hand—pops and the cage wobbles, then floats down to the grassy floor.

“You could do that?” Harry asks. He’s managed to suppress everything else, and sounds only curious. “More than one soul fragment being hosted in a person? Meaning Daniel and I could share just one, right?”

“Right!” Alan agrees, sounding pleased. “That was rather reasonable of you. I’m relieved. Shall we?”

“Of course.” Harry smiles, flashing his teeth. “We _do_ all want the same thing, don’t we? No matter how we need to get it.”

Draco hastily relocks the cage; he doesn’t think the absent magic dampener will be noticed—the bars are still glowing bright—but an uncharmed cage lock most certainly would be. Just in time, as well, because the lock promptly pops open with a flick of Alan’s wand. 

Alan looks at Alice, a bit sheepishly. “Yes, I’m a wizard,” he says, long-suffering. “But it’s not exactly a _normal_ way of life, is it? And you went on and on twenty-eight years ago about having the perfect normal life and—”

“You are about to take out my _soul_ and you can’t even remember that we’ve been married for twenty-nine goddamned years,” she bursts out, fingers curling into claws. 

“Not your whole soul, just—” Alan frowns. “We’re getting older, pet, and—”

“I will _kill_ you,” she says. Her body trembles with ire. “Who _are_ you?”

Alan sighs. “It’ll be fine. I’ll make you forget,” he says, dismissing her. He casts his wand at her and casually throws out an Imperius curse. Her eyes go dull and blank. Draco takes a step forward, and Alan rolls his eyes. “Don’t even think about it,” he sneers. “I’m charmed to the gills; anything you try will be rebounded.”

Draco blinks, wondering if the man is actually so stupid as to just give him such information freely, or if he’s bluffing. He keeps his wand pressed, hidden, against his side with his arm.

Alan pops open the door. He gives a muttered directive to the Aurors, and Sheila reaches in to drag out a dazed Alice. The other two grab the bartender and the real Tom, who is shaking so hard Draco could swear he’s about to piss himself.

Yes, well. That’s what _happens_ when one aligns themselves with the Dark. Draco knows that well enough.

“Seems odd you’d be living as a Muggle with so much magic at your disposal,” Draco observes when Alan nods to him and allows him to join Harry at his side. On his way out of the cage, he Glamours the door sound as though it’s popping closed, and Disillusions it to look locked when Alan flicks his wand.

“I made some mistakes in my youth,” Alan admits, amused. “I was without magic for quite a long time, actually. You learn to live with it. You never learn to like it. But it is what it is, and I’ve found Alice, who—”

“Does not seem best pleased with you right now,” Harry remarks.

“She’ll be fine by tomorrow. And we’ll never have to worry about her pesky heart problem, or the way my cartilage keeps breaking down, or even aging,” Alan says with a sigh. 

Draco arches a brow at Harry; he hasn’t heard that Horcruxes stop aging in its tracks. Harry gives him a minute shrug and says, “Aging?”

“Another bid, another time, Mister Matthews.” Alan gestures. “If you two will come forward? Roger, won’t you join us?”

Roger slinks up to them and, curiously, obediently heads to the side of Tom and the bartender. He looks down at his feet.

“Now,” Alan says, “I am taking my young helper here as Alice’s sacrifice; please feel free to choose amongst these other two, or _one_ of my wanded assistants,” he adds, waving at the Aurors. Draco swallows.

Harry purses his lips. His eyes glint, but he studies the options dispassionately. “Him, I think,” he says, pointing to the Auror who’d watched over Draco the previous night; Dave.

“And your host? Or object,” Alan says, pointing to a series of items laid out on a small conjured table next to the podium that Draco hadn’t noticed. It’s mostly heavily-stoned jewellery, but a few other trinkets look to be made of solid gold.

Harry’s shoulders come up; he points to a small pocket-watch.

“Are you sure?” Alan asks. “One of the best things about having one of these two as a host is that—not only does their living status benefit your soul—they are both in need of money and so for something like a small assistant job—with a bit of Confundus thrown in—you’d be able to keep him with you; put him on a salary.”

Harry examines the men thoughtfully. “Good point. Him, then.”

“No, no, no, no, you can’t, I just needed to sell something—” Tom babbles as he’s dragged forward. Alan Silences him, and Draco tries to feel bad about it; he really does.

“Now, the fun part,” Alan declares. Alice is pushed forward to his side, and he removes the stone from his pouch again. “Please watch this _very carefully._ If you get it wrong, we’ll have to start from scratch and there’s a possibility of damaging the stone. Roger?”

Roger steps forward and Alan has him hold the stone in his hand. He cups it, staring down into its bottomless, radiant depths with a sort of numb acceptance on his face. Alan begins incanting and though the night has dragged on more slowly than Draco had thought possible, he realises that Roger is about to be murdered in front of him; he realises that the night has caught up to them all at once.

He looks to Harry, who is staring at him with an intensity that goes far beyond a Legilimens link. And then several things happen at once.

Alice stirs, blinking rapidly several times, and with astonishment, Draco realises that this Muggle woman has managed to fight off the Imperius curse, just as Harry Summons his own wand from the table and tosses it to Draco. He catches it nimbly, all of his reflexes surfacing as his adrenaline surges, and brings up his right arm, too.

Alan’s voice cracks; he’s so focused on reciting the spell properly, that it takes him just enough time to notice that anything has gone awry for Draco to Stun one of the Imperiused Aurors with one hand and, with the other, aim at—and _miss_ , the lucky bastard—another. Alan stops, turning toward the scuffle, his lax wand hand coming up. He points it at Draco, singeing his bicep with a flat yellow curse as Draco ducks to the side.

Harry lets out a furious shout; he always looks like he’s dancing when he duels, fingers loose and twirling complicated patterns, wrists firm, forearms bunching. His feet move deftly as he sends out a flurry of hexes to the Auror Draco missed and the one he stunned, who’s popped right back up, aided by the way his Imperius orders have driven him. Draco wishes he had time to watch, but he’s a little busy throwing himself at Alan while aiming for Dave. Dave’s face doesn’t register pain, but a bright splash of blood begins gushing from his temple, although it’s still not enough to deter him from jinxing Draco’s knees backwards until he manages to right them, and then throwing a Deafening hex, which tilts the world and his centre of gravity for a few critical moments. Draco shakes it off as he goes down with Alan, aiming his wand at Alan’s robust belly, but Alan still has his own wand, and Draco feels the skin under his earlobe slice open; he feels the ribbons of blood seep out. Alan rolls them, pressing heavy over Draco’s form, but Draco uses Harry’s wand to blast him backward, sending him three feet away to hit the earth with a dull, grunting _thud_.

He was bluffing, then.

Sparing no time to look at Harry, Draco casts a brightness spell over to the people in the cage--who have been watching, stunned--in hopes they will figure out that it’s time to go. They start scrambling out, wandless and mostly terrified, although about half of them are composed enough to get Summon their _own_ wands from the table. Unfortunately, _they_ seem to be the ones who have enough reason to help Alan; they revive whichever bidders they came with and step in to join the duel.

Draco gasps as another hex flies at him from an unknown location, hitting him up high on the back of his thigh. He crawls toward the podium with his elbows, keeping low and moving fast. One arm points Harry’s wand behind him, sending curses in every direction he senses movement, and he aims his own fir wand to support Harry in his duel—now against three Aurors. Tom is huddled behind the podium, knees up against his chest, eyes bitter and frightened. Draco squishes back into the small area as well as he can, peeking out once he has better coverage.

He sees Roger standing, not doing a thing to protect himself, stone still cupped gently in his hand. Draco Summons it, simultaneously sending a strong Protego toward Roger, who doesn’t seem to notice. He sinks down into the soft grass, eyes distant as the stone whizzes into Draco’s hand, its surface surprisingly silky and hot. It pulses, and Draco ignores his Mark as it flares scalding, instead reaching down to pocket the thing only to be slammed with the reality that he’s _still not wearing any goddamned clothes_. 

Irrationally furious at that, he shoves the stone at Tom and casts an Immobulus at him, then stands from behind the podium with renewed effort, gritting his teeth at the pain that sears under his left buttock, and starts firing off curses right and left. The remaining bidders hide in the small crowd, heads and wands popping up to throw out new hexes, and Draco thoughtlessly keeps up his barrage as his eyes seek Alan. 

Who is getting beaten.

Rather severely.

Startled, he barks out a laugh and splits his focus between his own fight and the way Alice shoves and hits at her husband, her face livid, until he stumbles back onto his rump. His wand has fallen who-knows-where under her siege, but he has the presence of mind—while trying to protect himself from her assault—to Summon it. He raises it between them and she kicks at his arm so fiercely that his shoulder dislocates. Alan howls in pain, wand tumbling out of his grip.

Draco risks another glance at Harry, who has managed to get the Aurors under control and has joined him in the fight against the bidders. They each still seem intent on getting that stone, even if they don’t know the procedure necessary to _use_ it. Harry flashes him a quick, feral smile that Draco returns, sweating and panting with exertion, as they play off each other, dodging and shifting and sweeping around one another for the best angles from which to aim.

And it’s like another dance, this thing they’re able to do together so easily. Maybe it comes from fighting each other for so long, in so many different ways--from learning how to work against each other--that their harmony in a duel is so seamless. Draco’s eyes flash to Harry’s empty hands, then to his own, which hold two wands. It feels good; right and natural, to Draco, to fight at Harry’s side while using Harry’s wand. It’s like kissing, and flying, and practice, and sex, all at once. It’s the same feeling Draco gets when Harry’s magic sweeps over his skin, issued by a soft command from Harry’s lips.

Harry cries out softly, jerking forward. Draco spins, left arm still casting toward the crowd, right arm ruthlessly sending a Diffindo at the bartender, who has managed to procure a wand and has resurfaced from wherever he was hiding. The bartender grunts and goes down, holding his side as blood spills out of it and Draco casts a rapid stasis charm over his whole body, then turns back to the fight.

Harry edges back, overwhelmed in just those few seconds, and though Draco can still see his talent, his skill, his fucking _power_ , he also sees the rest of it on Harry’s face—the gruelling, constant effort he’s under, the unhappiness at being in this position _again_ as their assailants begin to get nervier and approach the stage with less fear. 

But then Draco sees a flash of ginger hair; his eyes stray to it and widen. Weasley, out of the Aurors these last three years and working in a joke shop, stands at the edge of the treeline. His face is grim and set, brutal curses flying from his outstretched wand. Draco gets a glimpse of two bidders falling and trying to rise, only to be hit again. The resolve Weasley shows is almost frightening; his normally genial face is sharp and angry as he lends to their fight from two metres away. Another hex shoots over Draco’s shoulder, hitting the older woman from the cage as she sends a bright shot of green toward Harry. Harry narrowly jumps out of the way, and Draco sees Granger join them as well, stepping forward steadily, brown eyes alight with deadly promise, so different from the reactionary, panicked skill Draco witnessed eight years prior. Her hair flies around her, the front lit by the fairy lights, casting a shadow behind her as she proceeds to their side.

“Harry,” Draco hears her murmur calmly. “You look different.”

“Glamoured by your team,” Harry says, breathless. “Thanks for coming.”

“I was planning on it anyway,” she replies, hopping neatly to avoid a hex sent low. “Malfoy, why didn’t you put on clothes for this?”

Draco huffs, but then Weasley is there to make everything so much better and so much worse. “Probably decided Harry needed some incentive.”

They’re able to slow some as the four of them gain the advantage, the revived bidders starting to fall back. Draco cocks his chin at Weasley. “I think you accidently complimented me in the most appalling way.”

“Yeah,” Weasley grunts. “I was trying to come up with something to imply you’re an idiot, but it’s not so easy when you’re dodging a Cruciatus. You have a really small dick. Better?”

Harry laughs to Draco’s right, and Draco rolls his eyes, refusing to allow the spasm at the corner of his mouth to turn into a smile. And then, somehow, the clearing has gone quiet. The witches and wizards fighting them are either unconscious or bound or too injured to continue. Harry Summons their wands just in case, gripping six in one fist and two in the other. His chest heaves, and that disturbingly flat look begins to fade from his eyes.

“Thanks for coming,” Harry says again.

“I never get to fight anymore,” Weasley says, pocketing his wand and wiping his brow. “Plus, when ‘Mione told me about—”

Harry shakes his head abruptly, black hair flying. His eyes stray to Draco for a split second, and Draco feels a stab of pain that now, _still_ , he can’t be trusted with Harry’s truths.

“Anyway,” Weasley continues after a beat. “I guess we’d better get this wrapped up, right?”

Sighing, Harry gestures the Aurors. “They’re undercover. Imperius, or some potion version of it. Hermione, could you—?”

“On it,” she says with a swift smile, heading off in the direction of them.

“Alice,” Draco calls. She’s wheezing, and her kicks have gotten rather weak, but he’s pretty sure Alan is down for the count. He looks… Rather awful, actually. “Alice, love, you may want to leave off now.”

It seems to take a few moments for his words to sink in, but she finally stops kicking her husband and staggers back to collapse into one of the folding chairs. Alan’s body does not look very good; he’ll very likely need at least a week in the hospital. A magical one, at that.

Weasley and Harry confer quietly, then begin murmuring locative and Summoning spells at random. “What are you looking for?”

“The stone,” Harry says quietly. 

“Oh.” Draco heads over to the podium where Tom remains huddled. He grabs the stone from Tom’s frozen clutch and returns. “Here,” he says, starting to hand it over. He pauses. “What do you plan to do with it?”

Harry looks at him levelly. He’s got a sluggishly bleeding gash at his hairline; another on his chin. “We’re supposed to bring it in.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. As expected, Harry’s gaze strays to it; his Adam’s apple bobs. “I know,” Draco tells him quietly, passing it over. “What do you plan to do with it?”

A small, grateful smile curves Harry’s lips. He hefts the stone a few times in his fist, fingers gripping it tight as he weighs his options. After a moment, he gives Draco a sidelong glance. “It’s a good thing we’re in a place with so much magical energy, isn’t it? These things are always a bit harder to handle when there’s a void.”

“Lucky, that,” Draco agrees. 

“Where, d’you think?”

Draco looks around and spots the area in the very centre of the clearing, where Harry had kissed him, hours before. He remembers the heavy pulse of magic beating against him, harder and more tantalising than the rain. “There.”

It’s just beyond where the last of the chairs are set up, and Harry carries it over. “I could probably use a bit of help,” Harry says, setting it down on the grass, then tugging on one ear. 

Draco smirks. Harry _doesn’t_ need any help, as a matter of fact, and he knows this, but… it’s something. No matter what happens when they go back, it’s something. “I’ve got two wands here,” he says.

“That you do,” Harry says, eyeing his holly wand in Draco’s grip. He seems pleased by how it looks. “On three then?”

Draco nods. At the countdown, he casts his strongest exploding curses. He feels Harry’s magic shudder as he releases it out of his hands, feels it connect with his own. Feels the ground beneath them quake with the force of it, and maybe Harry _did_ need the help, even if neither of them believed it, because it seems like the earth beneath the stone bends inward for a split second, trying to protect it. Draco forces more of his magic out, gritting his teeth against the strain, and the stone jumps a few inches and descends. It shatters with a huge _bang_ that reverberates through the woods, pieces flying like exploded glass before they crumble and dissipate into nothing.

Hermione joins them. “Harry,” she censures, voice serious and authoritative, “you were supposed to bring that back. However could you have been so careless?”

“Humble apologies, Hermione.”

“Well,” she says with a deep sigh. Her voice turns light. “Nothing to be done about it now, I suppose.”

They head back to the ruin of the auction, and Draco stares around in dismay for a moment. They’ll be able to call the Ministry for clean-up specialist help, but are going to have to do an awful lot of Obliviation on their own, and he’s not looking forward to it; he pretty much aches everywhere, he’s bleeding from at least half a dozen areas and—

“Merlin,” he mutters, looking down. “Fuck. Potter, pry that robe off that wizard over there, would you? He looks about my size.”

Harry grins and turns. Draco waits, finally allowing his knees to feel loose and wobbly, something he’s successfully managed to avoid until the fighting was over, and he wanders over to one of the chairs near Alice to sink into it. She’s silent, but after a moment says, “So magic exists?”

Draco nods wearily. His headache is starting to return. “Yes.”

“Weird things used to happen around us,” she says thoughtfully, looking down at her husband. “I used to think—a mistress, another family, a gambling addiction when we’d suddenly get flush. Things of that nature.”

“I’m sorry, love,” Draco says, and means it.

She shrugs, sighs. “I always told him the one thing I wouldn’t abide were secrets… He was going to murder someone to turn me into a monster, wasn’t he?”

“I’m sorry,” Draco tells her again.

“I wonder at how little I knew him,” she muses in a sort of detached way. “Whatever you do to me so I won’t remember, don’t let me forget that I don’t want to be with him anymore, okay? Even if he lives. _Especially_ if he lives.”

“I won’t,” Draco promises, meeting her eyes.

“Make it something really bad. Make it all those things I said,” she continues, then closes her eyes briefly. “Oh, god, my daughter.”

Draco pats her on her bare, quivering shoulder. His head drags forward, dropping with exhaustion, and then there’s only the tiniest, rustling movement and burst of light to warn him.

Draco knocks Alice to the side hard, eyes flashing to Harry’s. Harry is ambling toward them, a slightly tattered robe held limply in one hand, a tired smile on his face. His face takes on a red-and-green hue, glasses reflecting the hex that hits Draco low on the belly. 

It doesn’t hurt, at least; there’s more a feeling of heavy pressure than pain, and Draco clutches at his stomach in hopes of alleviating the sensation. There’s another flash of green, something he recognises, though he doesn’t know where from, heading in his general direction from where Harry is running toward him. Then Harry’s face is before him, his hand gentle on the back of Draco’s neck, and his mouth is moving but Draco can’t hear him; maybe he’s using Legilimens again. Harry’s a fool of the first order, and Draco tries to tell him that, but Harry’s eyes are anguished and terrified and Draco thinks it may not be the right time to tease.

Draco sees the flicker of movement, the flash of Hermione’s stark face and Weasley’s shocked expression. Noises come back to him in a rush, like after he neutralised the Deafening hex, and he hears Harry rambling something, hands hovering over his torso. “Fucking hell, Malfoy, stay with me you stubborn—” Louder he says, “Help me—!”

Then Draco is moving, and in the blink of an eye he is overwarm, and wet, and wrapped in Harry’s arms. Harry is speaking in a low, rapid tone without pause, his magic flowing through Draco soothingly. Something in his stomach knits tight, causing a burst of pain which fades as Harry keeps talking and touching him. Draco’s a little confused by the whole situation but generally okay with it, he thinks drowsily as Harry’s chest shakes while he rocks Draco in his clasp. It’s pleasant, with the steam rising around him, and for once Draco doesn’t want to question his luck.

***

Over the course of the next several days, Draco wakes up multiple times only to have clipped, tired conversations before closing his eyes again and going back to sleep. Granger is there a few times; Weasley once. Healer after Healer, and even Shacklebolt drops by, but Draco’s mind is too bleary to make out much beyond, “Harry is busy, but he says he’ll come when he can,” and, “Harry was here for a while earlier,” and “Solved two cases at once, Auror, well done.” He basically does his best not to call anyone idiotic because Harry _isn’t_ coming and why on earth would he get any sort of commendation for getting injured _three bloody times_ on a mission, and almost dying?

 

He also receives a host of descriptions about his own injury that he doesn’t really pay attention to beyond that Harry had somehow known to drag him to the hot springs before attempting to Apparate him; that Harry had saved his life. But he _can’t_ really pay much attention to anything beyond the tight ache in his middle, the various sore spots plaguing his body, and his own disappointment that he’d been Harry, upon their return.. 

Sleep is better.

On the sixth day, Draco opens his eyes alertly, dragged unceremoniously out of sleep by whatever new potions compound they have him on. The pain, by then, has faded into a sharp twinge that reminds him not to move so quickly when he does, sitting up and shoving his hair back with one swift movement.

“Fuck,” he hisses, hand pressing right above his groin. The skin is patched over with Healing gauze but it’s tender, underneath.

“You okay? Want me to get someone?”

Draco looks over, startled. Harry sits in a chair next to him, the bridge of his nose knit. His eyes have dark smudges under them, and his face is drawn.

“Why are you here?” Draco demands. Even that seems to take a lot of effort, and he lowers himself against the raised back of the mattress carefully.

Harry frowns. “What do you mean, why am I here?”

Flustered, Draco waves a hand. He looks around; he’s in a private room. Quite posh, for an Auror, actually. “You haven’t been.” He pauses. “You’ve been busy.”

“I’ve been by a couple of times,” Harry says, irritably. “But I had to do a lot of case wrap-up, and I had no partner to help me.”

“Merlin, Potter, if you’ll whinge about extra work even when the person who was supposed to contribute has been _mortally wounded_ it’s truly a miracle you made it through Hogwarts and got your NEWTs all,” Draco says with a snort.

“It’s a miracle for other reasons,” Harry says wryly. “And I got my NEWTs without doing much because they wanted to race me through to Auror training. But yeah; Hermione helped a lot, back then.”

“And the other night,” Draco points out, ignoring that bit about Harry’s NEWTs. He cocks his head curiously. “Which I thought was supposed to be too much of a risk for you to take with her life.”

“Circumstances changed,” Harry says, standing. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his worn denims and walks over to the window, peering out. He scoffs a little. “Did you really think I was going to let them kidnap you and not get some backup? They were the only ones who knew—who _know_ —about… I couldn’t trust anyone else at the Ministry, not after her letter.”

“Oh.” Draco ponders this, looking at Harry’s shoulders, tense under the stretched fabric of his t-shirt. His face heats up a little as he rolls Harry’s words around in his mind, the implicit gist of them. “Well. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry says gruffly, still not facing him.

“So what happened?” Draco picks at the threading of the light bedspread covering him, eyes darkening as something occurs to him. “And why the _bloody hell_ am I _still naked?_ ”

Finally Harry turns, a grin creasing his face. “Your wound was so low that they didn’t want any added pressure on it; not even the covering of clothing, until it was safe. They only gave you the blanket last night.”

“The _Minister_ was in here,” Draco recalls faintly, horrified.

Harry laughs. “They had a privacy charm over you. Everything was opaque from your chest down. And I brought you some clothes,” he adds, nodding to a small leather bag sitting on a visiting chair. “I had to fiddle with your wards a bit to get into your place, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Draco grumbles acidly. “Why would I mind knowing that my flat is insecure enough that it only takes a bit of ‘fiddling’ to break into?”

Rolling his eyes, Harry heads back to the chair next to his bed. “I’m not exactly ‘anyone,’” Harry says sheepishly.

Draco blinks. “Right. So, the case? What happened with Alice? And Roger? And the bidders? And the potions? Were the other Aurors alright? What about—”

“As far as we can tell,” Harry says, interrupting his flow of questions, “Alan went to Hogwarts about thirty-five years back. He was one of the only people from a non-wizarding family to get placed in Slytherin since its founding. I guess there have been about a dozen?”

Slytherin. Of course. Draco grimaces, but gestures at Harry to continue.

“Anyway, he got caught using the Imperius curse on some other classmates. Apparently, it was a speciality of his; he was expelled and had his wand taken away. He didn’t serve time only because he was under seventeen, but I guess the stigma was really bad and he returned to the Muggle world,” Harry explains.

Draco nods impatiently. “Yes, I’d gotten that part.”

“Well, he’d always been really good at potions, so it must’ve been several years—we’re not exactly sure of when—but he’d Polyjuiced himself and managed to procure a new wand. I guess he mostly used it when things were rough, to make their circumstances a bit easier. Then he started having _ideas_ about ten years ago,” Harry says with a scowl. “Black market sales of potions, experimenting. Only, you know, people who use Dark Magic and who’ve a record of using Unforgivables get tracked when they’re around Muggles because—”

“Because it’s easier to trace them than when they’re surrounded by magic,” Draco says, trying not to be bored but flapping his hand again anyway. “So that’s why he chose the resort. The magical land?”

Harry’s mouth quirks. “Exactly. And it was working really well for him, I guess. He’d done some research on—on the _other_ thing,” he says, stumbling a bit, “when he was at school. The teacher he’d Imperiused had given up the information, so he had a starting point. He stayed far away from the war, but I guess when rumours started to float around about…” Another grimace.

Draco nods thoughtfully, taking it in. “And Roger?”

“That was our fault, that he was so compliant,” Harry says, wincing. “He’d gotten the forged note and stupidly informed Alan that he wanted a cut of his profits from the potions because he was out. Alan told him that he’d caught Liz and was holding her hostage. It’s sort of sweet, actually, that he didn’t put up a fight.”

“It’s daft that he didn’t even ask for proof of life before allowing himself to be used as a bloody _sacrifice,_ ” Draco says, although secretly he agrees a bit. “That’s what it is. Sweet extends to making sure your spouse is actually in danger before you offer your life for theirs.”

“That’s what you’d do?” Harry drawls, amused.

“If I planned on having a spouse,” Draco says smoothly, giving him a flat look.

“I meant for anyone you were with.”

“Of course.” Draco snorts. “Let someone send me their pinky, _then_ I’ll think about how I can wiggle out of complying while I save their life.”

Harry chuckles. A dark pink stain starts riding high on his cheekbones, Draco notices with interest.

There’s an awkward moment of silence, and then Harry brings the topic back. “Alice’s fine. We modified some of her memories to protect the Statute and—the other stuff. But…” He shrugs. “She said to tell you ‘thank you,’ and that she hopes to meet you next year.”

“Doubtful. The day I walk around in public naked again is the day I give up my wand. But I liked her. She’s impressive,” Draco admits. He doesn’t even say _for a Muggle_ because he knows very few _wizards_ who can break out of the sweet stasis of _Imperio_.

“She really is,” Harry says, tone admiring. “The Aurors, too. All of them are fine. I guess Alan figured out he was being watched the first night we got there—not by us, fortunately. One of the undercovers was stupidly wearing a class ring—sometime after we talked to Tom. Tom said in his statement that he woke up in a body-bind that night. Alan Polyjuiced as him off and on because the bartender—one of his couriers, who he’d intended to use for as a sacrifice—knew of Tom’s involvement and might have gotten suspicious if he’d just disappeared.”

“Clever,” Draco says, upper lip curling in distaste. “So every time we saw him after that?”

“It was Alan, yeah.”

“And he’s in Azkaban?” Draco asks. He thinks of Alice’s bare feet kicking him and feels his sneer pull into a smile. “Or is he still being tended to in the hospital?”

Harry looks away. His jaw goes tight; the muscle in it jumps. “He didn’t make it out.”

“He was breathing,” Draco protests, then stops. He recalls a blurry flash of bright green coming from Harry’s direction after he’d gone down, and for a moment, his ribcage seems too tight for his lungs. “Oh. I see.”

“Yeah, well.” Harry doesn’t meet his eyes. “He was aiming for his wife, I think. You saved her life.”

Draco stares at him, trying to compel Harry to look up. When he doesn’t, Draco sighs. “What about the… research? What they were investigating at the Ministry?”

Harry huffs a little, seemingly pleased. “Well, Hermione just got a promotion,” he offers with a small snicker. His head remains bowed, shining black hair unkempt as always as he gazes at his hands, folded together over his crossed knee. “It was her boss that orchestrated it. He’d been on several— lists, I guess, for years. Things that might give him a leg-up on research. He heard whispers of the auction but knew he’d never have enough money, so he passed along the information about a Dark object being sold, hoping he could get a hold of it. That was all he could remember; it was almost like someone had Obliviated the _kind_ of object he’d wanted to research before he was interviewed,” he adds, smirking a little. His amusement fades and when he continues, his voice is much softer, a little melancholy. “Hermione’s really good at Obliviation spells.”

Draco debates asking about that, but he’s already done too much of it. “And what should I know about how it was destroyed?”

“An accident.” Harry’s head comes up; his face is surprisingly warm, despite the wistfulness of his tone a moment ago. “A stray spell from one of bidders, we think. Who,” he continues before Draco can prod him, “are all in holding cells right now.”

“And you’re here.” Draco studies him. “You’re not wearing your robes.”

“Taking some time off,” Harry says simply.

Draco sits back. “Why? How much?”

“Well, I’m due a holiday, aren’t I?” he says, sounding only a touch defensive. “A real one. I’ve been an Auror for—”

“Since you were eleven?” Draco puts in dryly.

Harry’s mouth tightens and draws into a downward-curving bow, but he nods. “So I thought I’d take a year or so, re-examine some things.”

“A year?” Draco’s never much liked the look of someone gaping, and he can feel that he’s doing it in the way his jaw sags, but it takes him an embarrassingly long moment to compose himself. And then it hits him; that’s why Harry is here.

To say goodbye.

Heaviness presses on Draco’s chest. He glowers at Harry for a second, who looks startled and says, “What? It’s not as if they’ll not pair you with someone good, Malfoy. Maybe even someone who will stick; you’ve never liked being a floater the way I have.”

Though this is true, it’s unimportant. Draco swallows and is relieved when his voice comes out sounding interested. “You mentioned seeing America?”

Harry straightens his glasses, peering at him. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve always wanted to go,” Draco says, posture stiff. “On holiday.”

“Well, yeah, but—” Harry’s mouth drops open. Gaping, Draco notes, is a much better look on _him_. He starts laughing, disbelief ringing in every huffed, chortling breath. “I’m not _leaving_ on holiday! I’m just— I’m on sabbatical from the Aurors for a while.” Once his laughter dies down, his smile softens and grows disconcertingly fond. “I mean, if things are still working in a few months, maybe you’d be willing to take a Portkey there for a long weekend…”

“Still working?” Draco echoes blankly. “We won’t be working together.”

“Fuck, they told me the curse didn’t damage your mental state,” Harry says, exasperated.

Draco opens his mouth to say something cutting, but Harry stands, taking two steps closer to the bed and then catches Draco’s face in his hands, swooping down to press an inappropriately deep kiss to Draco’s mouth. They’re in the _hospital_ Draco thinks wildly before letting himself sink into the sensation. Harry’s hands are warm on his cheeks, his tongue slick and tasting of sweetened tea. They kiss for so long that Draco is breathless when Harry finally pulls back, eyes heavy lidded, and he realises that Harry has half-climbed onto the bed with him, one knee propped on the edge of the mattress.

“Still working,” Draco says again shakily when Harry gives him a rueful smile and pulls his knee down, standing close. “That kind of ‘still working.’”

Harry shakes his head, casting an indignant look to the ceiling. “You still thought I was in it for the sex.”

“Well, it was rather fantastic sex,” Draco says, blinking rapidly as his thoughts start to coalesce into something he understands again. “So yes. I was. Am. I mean, not—”

“For while we were there,” Harry clarifies. “Fuck, I really am out of the loop, aren’t I? And here I thought, ‘I’d like to take you out to dinner when we get back,’ was a pretty clear way of saying you wanted to date someone.”

“It is, but—” Draco licks his lips; he can still taste Harry’s mouth on them, still feel them tingle. He’s too genuinely bewildered to go on. Shagging is one thing; even friendly, continued shagging. He’d somehow never counted on the idea that something could occur between them that wasn’t relegated to the shadows, to Harry’s flat, or his or perhaps to the occasional dirty loo stall at a pub after drinks. He clears his throat, meeting Harry’s sparkling eyes and gives a formal nod, then promptly feels ridiculous. “Yeah. Yes. We could have dinner. I did already say so, back at the resort.”

Harry stares at him for a beat. “And after?”

Draco stares back, then snorts. “If I’m in here too much longer, maybe _during._ Though the other people in the restaurant might object.”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before. It’d be worth it.” Harry’s eyes grow hungry. “They’re supposed to let you out soon. Though I don’t suppose you’d be feeling well enough to—?”

“I’d not be opposed to a bit more—” Draco hesitates, flushing. Fuck it. “A bit more snogging. Perhaps some other things. But no, I’m a few days out, I think, from the rest.” He seeks out the main bandage and presses on it with two fingers to check his own judgment. Regrettably, he feels certain he’s right in his estimation, though his cock has already thickened a bit under the blanket.

But then Harry is there, taking Draco at his word. He climbs up briskly onto the bed, straddling Draco’s thighs and hunching carefully over him. They’re not even touching, really, so Draco can’t be sure why his heart skips, why his prick lengthens even more. Harry presses his fingers into Draco’s shoulders and Draco allows himself to be pushed back; allows his mouth to be covered by Harry’s eager, breathless lips, allows Harry’s tongue to slip inside. He allows the world to spin away for several perfect, frozen moments in which he can forget that he almost died, forget that Harry did once, too, and focus only on the expert tease of Harry’s kiss, and his tongue as it flicks against and curls around Draco’s own. 

Draco finally has to pull his mouth away; Harry’s cheeks are ruddy, his glasses fogged. He sits back with a gulping breath, steadying himself over Draco’s legs as he pulls them off and cleans them with his t-shirt. It’s barbaric, but the flash of the skin on Harry’s stomach is remarkably tantalising, and Draco trails a finger over the black hair that disappears in a trail beneath Harry’s jeans.

“I’m not up for it yet,” Draco admits apologetically. His cock certainly is, having gone hard and leaking just from their extended kiss. He wonders if there’s any way to get a blowjob out of his convalescence—maybe here; maybe _now_ —but Harry gusts out a loud breath and swings his leg back over, sliding off the bed.

“S’okay.” Harry sits down in the chair again; he scoots it forward until he can pick up Draco’s hand. The hard line of tension in his forehead eases, just a little. “I like you,” he adds quietly. Stunned, Draco tries to think up a way to respond, but Harry continues before he can. “I like you, and we have time.”

And Merlin if that doesn’t make Draco want to jump him even more. He sighs, rubbing both of his hands over his face and giving a frustrated, muffled groan. “I suppose,” he says. “Only what should we do with it until we can fuck each other stupid for a week straight?”

“Talk,” Harry shrugs with a tiny, amused smile. But Draco doesn’t miss the way his eyes flare for a moment, like he’s considering Draco’s words a challenge.

“Talk?” Draco echoes, dubious and vaguely miserable. “About what? Where we’ll go for dinner? How I don’t think I can even have a wank right now without hurting myself? What?”

Harry smiles, but his eyes are steady and serious. He leans forward. “Well… seeing as you have some time,” he says, pulling Draco’s hand forward and laying it flat against his chest, “I thought you might want to hear a story.”

Draco looks at him. He feels the heavy _thump, thump_ of Harry heartbeat under his palm. Feels the searing heat of Harry’s brand as well, burning in pulses under the fabric of his shirt.

“I’d be interested,” Draco says slowly, cautiously. His own heart slams against his ribcage as though demanding to be let out.

Nodding, Harry presses his hand tighter. “Good,” he says seriously, taking a deep breath. He smiles. “Because I’d like to tell you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Comments and kudos are absolutely lovely! 
> 
> Also, I'm on [tumblr](https://bixgirl1.tumblr.com/) now, too! *waves*


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